#it��s still a fucking blow but i can’t spiral and i can’t act like something fundamentally changed about the world

[skullrock]

casanova - Steve x Reader

pairing: Steve x Reader

summary: You try to save Steve from himself when he gets a little too drunk at a party. 

word count: 2.3k

warnings: angst!!!, self doubt, alcohol, drugs, party scenes

a/n: yes I know y'all want fluff and I keep feeding you angst I am so sorry 

===

You watched Steve from afar once you filled a red plastic cup with water, passing it off as straight vodka.

You’d never drink straight vodka, but it worked.

Steve had begged you to come with him to a party, to get fucked up, to let loose. It had been three weeks since Nancy left him for Jonathan, and three weeks since Bob Newby died, and the Gate was closed. Steve was spiraling, and fast. He was always one to want to be the center of attention, but he had become even more desperate for any kind he could get. You were just thankful Billy kept a large distance between them – or you were pretty sure Steve would beat the shit out of him. Steve’s face had only just healed, and his memory was failing him, but he refused to get checked out – he just wanted to get as shitfaced as humanly possible.

And as you stand across the room and watch him, talking to a group of people loudly, you can’t help but feel like you failed him. You should have forced him to stay home. You feel nauseous just looking at him – how his shoulders sag with the weight of the world on him. How he can’t stand upright because of the alcohol. How his eyes are just slits from the pot. You are counting down the seconds until you intervene, but your nerves keep you against the wall.

Steve makes eye contact with you from where he’s standing, and his eyes squint even more as a large smile spreads on his face. It makes you sick. It’s genuine, but it’s not genuine. If he were sober, he wouldn’t be smiling that fucking big.

He meanders over to you, throwing his arm around your shoulder. “Hey!”

“Steve,” you say, knees buckling under the weight of his arm. “You okay?”

“No,” he says. “’Cause you’re not drinkin’.”

“I am,” you reply, holding up the cup.

Steve snorts. “That’s water.” He points to his head. “I’m not stupid.”

You nod. “Okay, buddy.”

“’m gonna get more,” he says, but you pull on the back of his sweater.

“No,” you say. “You’ve had enough. Just relax, alright?”

“Alright, dad,” he says, laughs loudly, and then stalks away.

You want to drink. You want to drink so bad. The headache that’s building gnaws on your brain, and you know it’s only going to get worse. The music makes your head pound, too, so you head off to a bathroom to calm down.

Steve knows he’s gone too far tonight, but he decides to lean into it instead of sobering up. The dizziness in his head feels good. Making people laugh feels good. He feels wanted and loved for the first time since Billy stepped foot in Hawkins, and it’s intoxicating. He loves the fame, the attention, he loves feeling the smile on his face. He throws back drink after drink, smokes puff after puff, and soon, he can hardly stand.

He sits on the couch, watching the room wave around him. He hears someone talking beside him, and he turns. It’s a girl he doesn’t know – or maybe doesn’t remember – and he blinks hard. “Hello.”

Soon, her hand is resting on his knee, and his is on hers, and they’re leaning in too close. He loves it. She’s not Nancy – he knows that, he knows that – but he can pretend. He can pretend someone wants him and loves him. It doesn’t hurt him. Not when he’s this fucked up, at least.

But you’ve come to his rescue, pulling him up from under the arms, dragging him as he loudly protests out to your car. He stumbles, he slurs, he shouts, but you keep pulling him.

Seeing him with that girl nearly made you throw up. And not because of your own feelings for the guy - but because Steve was about to be taken advantage of, and you could have prevented that from simply not letting him get this fucked up in the first place. You know he will hate you for “ruining his shot”, but you weren’t about to let him get hurt like that. He’s been through enough.

You get Steve into the car and buckle him up. He’s gone silent and you know it’s because he’s filling with rage. You know there will be a tantrum coming, and you mentally prepare yourself for whatever insults King Steve can find within him.

Halfway to his house, he finally speaks. “You’re an asshole.”

You wince but remain unfazed. “Okay.”

“Can’t believe… trying to ruin my life.”

You sigh heavily. “I’m not ruining your life.”

“You are.” He squeezes his eyes shut.

You stay silent, not wanting to fuel it further.

Steve seems to forget that he’s mad at you for a moment when you’re pulling him out of the car. Actually, he acts like he doesn’t remember being in the car with you at all, giving you a surprised, “Hey!” when you sling his arm over your shoulder. You grab the spare key under his welcome mat and stumble inside, Steve making no effort to walk for himself.

You finally get him into his room, gently sitting him on the bed. He grabs your hands and pulls you towards him, but you push off quickly, blushing profusely. It’s then that Steve realizes you’re not the girl he was flirting with on the couch, and his eyes read betrayal. He stands and falls back down on his ass, huffing. “The fuck is your problem?”

Here we go, you think. “Steve –“

“Why can’t you let me be happy?”

“I’m not the one getting in the way of your happiness, Steve.”

“’s that supposed to mean?”

You rummage through his desk to find his ibuprofen. You bite your tongue, although you want to tell him off so badly.

Your silence only fuels Steve. “’s your problem? Why can’t you have… have fun? With me?”

You slam a drawer shut and turn to him. “What’s so fucking fun about getting shitfaced at any available chance?”

Steve looks surprised, but his eyes narrow. “You’re just as bad as her.”

You laugh. “I’m just as bad as Nancy? For saving you from yourself?”

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

You roll your eyes and open another drawer, finding the ibuprofen. You take out a few and shove them towards Steve with a water bottle from his nightstand, but he just slaps your hand so that the pills fly everywhere.

Steve, when angry, acts like a four-year-old, and he’s even worse when he’s drunk.

“Fine,” you say, sitting the bottle and the water on his nightstand. “You can suffer in the morning. I did my part.”

“You have no right,” he says, voice surprisingly clear, “to tell me what to do with my life. I wanted to be with that girl.”

“No, Steve, you didn’t. You wanted to feel special.”

“Is that so bad?”

You shake your head and turn to go towards his wardrobe to get him new clothes. He reeks of cheap beer and pot. “You need to start taking care of yourself.”

He stands then, striding over to where you are and pushing you to the side to grab his own pajamas. You roll your eyes at him and step aside, letting him clumsily search through his things. He pulls out a white t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts that definitely don’t fit him anymore. He throws his clothes off aggressively, stumbling as he puts the shorts on, and then looks at you like he’s just done something incredible.

You’re pretty impressed, because he usually wears his party clothes to sleep.

You walk him back to his bed, gently sitting him down again. His fists are clenched, and his jaw is tight – it’s heartbreaking to see him like this. Tears well in his eyes and he whispers, “I hate you.”

“You hate me for taking care of you more than anyone has in a year?” you ask, kneeling in front of him. You grab his hands and force him to lace his fingers through yours. His grip is still tight, but he’s not at risk of breaking his fingers on his palms. “You hate me for caring about you?”

“I don’t need your help,” he slurs. “I’m not a kid.”

“You do need help, Steve. I’m not letting you get like this every week. I’m –“

“You’re worse than her, do you know that?”

It hurts, but you were prepared for that low blow. “You’ll get over it, Steve.”

He ungrips your hands, pushing you away weakly. “I want you to go.”

“Fine,” you say. You stand, but then kneel back down again. You gently grab his wrists and try to catch his eyes. “Steve… there’s more to life than stupid Nancy Wheeler.”

“You think this is just about Nancy?” His voice cracks and a tear falls onto his cheek. “You think – you think it’s just because the love of my life left me?”

You’re silent.

“It’s because Billy Hargrove beat my head in so fucking bad that I – I can’t even remember my locker combination. It’s because everyone looks at me like I’m dirt. It’s because girls treat me like I’m a temple, or whatever – I don’t remember the saying. God, I don’t remember anything.” He takes a shaky breath. “My head hurts, all the time. It races. I can’t fall asleep until four in the morning. I worry about the kids on an hourly basis. Bob Newby died, and I couldn’t do a god damn thing to save him.”

Your eyes shoot downwards, guilt coiling around your gut, hot and tight.

“And to take the cake – the girl I loved, more than anything in the world, left me for the same guy she told me not to worry about. She told me I was bullshit. She told me I killed Barb.” You hear him sniffle and your heart aches. “Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

“No,” you whisper – because you truly don’t.

It’s quiet for a long time. Your eyes are locked on the floor, and Steve’s are locked on his comforter. Finally, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs out of the grip of your hands on his wrists. “I want you to go.”

“Okay.”

You make your way towards the door before he calls out, “Can you tuck me in?”

His voice is so small and weak. Steve hates it more than anything. He feels like a kid again – he feels just like he did when he had nightmares and his parents didn’t do anything but send him back to bed. But he wants that safety – needs it – and so he needs you to tuck him in.

You walk back. Steve lays down, wrapping his arms around a pillow and tucking his knees up to his chest. You tuck the sheets in tightly around him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. You can see tears running down his cheeks, and you again whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. He sounds worn and exhausted.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “I care about you so much.”

“I know.”

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” You’re about to walk away when Steve’s hand emerges from the covers, grabbing yours. He pulls and you trip, falling onto the bed, and Steve opens the blankets up for you to crawl under.

“Stay,” he says. “Please.”

You take a deep breath and contemplate – is it really okay to crawl in with him? But he looks so lost and sad, and you don’t want to leave him on his own tonight. So you crawl in, wrapping your arms around Steve tightly.

You can feel his tears on the cold sheets. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry I fucked it all up.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” you explain, holding him tighter. “I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you. I don’t want you to feel like you need to prove yourself.” Your throat starts to burn as tears creep in. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be someone you’re not.”

“I don’t want to feel like that, either.”

It’s quiet for a bit more, and you think maybe Steve’s fallen asleep. But then he whispers, “You’re not like her. I don’t hate you.” He pauses. “And I don’t hate her.”

“I know,” you say. You reach for one of his hands and stroke his thumb with yours. “It’s alright, Steve.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“I want to get better, Y/N.”

You press your forehead into his shoulder. “I want to help you get better.”

Steve picks up your hand and presses his lips to the back of it. Your stomach flips and jumps and twists, the breath knocked out of you. You love him.

“You mean everything to me,” he whispers. “You’ve been here for me through everything. And you never ran away. You never left.”

“How could I?” you ask. “You’re the best thing in my life.”

“I love you,” he says. It’s weak and faint, but there’s a truth behind it, whatever that truth may be.

“I love you, too.”

Soon, his breaths become shallow, and his chest rises and falls softly. You press yourself tighter against him and squeeze the arm circling his torso. He might forget it in the morning – he almost certainly will – but you love him, too, and you’re going to help him get better.

===

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[medea10]

My Review of Zombieland Saga REVENGE

Yes, Franchouchou has come back after a two and a half year hiatus.

HISTORY: Zombieland Saga is an idol show.

I have already cut my readership in half with that one sentence alone. But this is no ordinary idol show! A maniacal necromancer named Kotarou Tatsumi brings seven girls back from the dead. A former idol from the 1980’s (Junko), a former idol from the 2010’s (Ai), a child star from the 2010’s (Lily), a girl with idol aspirations from 2008 (Sakura), a former biker gang chick from 1997 (Saki), a courtesan from the 19th century (Yugiri), and Yamada Tae! There’s no describing what exactly Yamada Tae is but we don’t question it as she’s best girl.

Kotarou brought these seven girls back to life in order to save the Saga area and revitalize it. Throughout the first 12 episodes, we watch these girls get the hang of being alive again after so long and become an idol group. With Kotarou’s make-up skills, he’s able to fool nearly everybody that these girls are living, breathing idols. Almost everybody! At the end of the series, we get one guy who caught on about Lily, Ai, and Junko. But enough about that! Let’s see how successful Franchouchou has gotten since we last left the series.

REVENGE: So this sequel begins with the girls doing odd-jobs trying to earn as much money as they possibly can. Normally, the girls would do odd gigs that Kotarou was able to conjure up and that’s been good publicity for their group Franchouchou. However, they came into some money problems when they gambled and lost. It’s no doubt that their performance in the 12th episode was a banger and gave Franchouchou a boost in the idol scene. However, they aimed too high by renting out a big amphitheater to have a concert and only 1.6% capacity was filled. So the performance that night was a crash and burn type of thing. The after-effect put the girls in the hole (money wise) and Kotarou spends his days getting drunk at bars.

Seriously, look at this guy! He looks like a drunk, fourth season Eren Yeager. Kinda hard watching Kotarou looking so sad, pathetic, and drunk! It wasn’t until the girls had to perform at a metal concert arena that Kotarou got a kick in the pants. The fool arrives to the performance hella late, screaming for an encore when the audience is totally not vibing for one. And the girls end up singing while the audience goes in (for a lack of a better term) a Blues Brothers style rumble. The important thing is that Kotarou is feeling better and is ready to send his little zombie songbirds out to save the Saga prefecture.

Throughout the season, we follow the girls of Franchouchou as they regain some popularity they obtained last season. Will they do it? In the first 4 episodes, the group gained their own radio show and Ai’s old group (before she died) Iron Frill considered them as rivals. I think they’ll be okay!

BUT WAIT…: What about that photographer fella we saw all last season? He was quickly catching onto Ai, Junko, and Lily looking a little too close in resemblance to the girls that died years ago. Slowly throughout the series, we see him get closer to the truth.

NEW IDOL?: Oh God, did Kotarou commit taboo once again by bringing another girl back from the dead?

No…It was sadly much worse.

While at a public bathhouse, a girl (not wearing her prescription glasses) entered the men’s side, slipped on some soap, and was knocked unconscious. Thinking she died, Kotarou brings her body back to the girls (who aren’t wearing their makeup) saying this girl will be #7 in Franchouchou. And just like I said, she is not dead and now she knows that the idol group she loves are dancing zombies.

Kotarou is truly fucking up royally this season.

Anyways, this is Maimai! She’s a fan of Franchouchou and ends up becoming a temporary member of the group as #7 (for the episode). And, she’s voiced by Kana Hanazawa! If you don’t know who she is by now, blow me. It’s a little scary knowing that there’s one person out there that knows about the secret. But Maimai is much too loyal a fan to ruin something for everyone and is totally chill about her favorite idol group really being zombies.

THE TWO UNSOLVED MYSTERIES: As much as many of us loved the first season to Zombieland Saga, there were two characters we wished got more play and we knew a little more about. Yugiri and Yamada Tae! Tae-chan has been the enigmatic idol from day one. And due to her possible mental disability, we might never know. However, in one episode we do see her stopping off at a cemetary and I do believe that was her own grave.

As for Yugiri, even the detective can’t dig up info on her. She was around in the late 1800s or the Meiji era and there’s only one known photo in existence of Yugiri before her death. This season, we got a two-episode saga to bring us the good word on Saga and its importance. We got a bit of a history lesson about the Saga prefecture during the Meiji era and even what it was like before then. And yes, we did learn how Yugiri died and her connection to Saga. It was quite sad, but definitely one of the best episodes of the series.

BEST SONG: Didn’t think I’d have one for this franchise.

Saga Jihen from episode 9.

Nuff said.

ENDING: Well, we learned some extra details on what happened during the fall and rise of Franchouchou. This mostly has to do with Kotarou’s gamble with booking a huge arena for the girls to perform in. First of all, this arena was the place of Ai’s death. You member! When she was electrocuted right there on stage! Second of all, they didn’t sell the tickets until the day of the concert. What was that end result again? 1.6% capacity filled! Even in Covid-19 times, that’s fucking small. Granted, the audience was full of those memorable fans from season one including Saki’s friend’s daughter, Lily’s father, and the two metal jackasses. But still, not a good! The girls hit a brick wall and felt embarrassed. This was the worst moment for these girls (aside from dying once). After the disasterous event, they were millions of yen in debt, they’re running out of essentials for the house, and Kotarou has gone on a two-month drinking binge. It was then that they decided to do makeup themselves and go out in the world to earn a living and eventually pay off the debt.

Thankfully, they were able to get out of debt and regained their popularity throughout Saga and further. Saki has managed to get a radio show. Iron Frill (Ai’s old group) sees Franchouchou as a worthy rival. Lily gained a lot of fame in a televised competition. So what’s next? Kotarou apologized to Franchouchou for his big mistake the previous year and him spiraling out of control. Seconds later, he announces that their revenge will be to perform at the very same arena that fucked up their career the year prior.

Boy, you do NOT learn your lesson, do you?!

More trouble is on the rise as that reporter who caught on about the girls being zombies has confronted Kotarou. We finally circled back to the final scene from season one. This guy has caught on to the fact that the girls of Franchouchou resemble girls that died. The only one that he couldn’t dig up dirt on was Yugiri. Possibly because the only known evidence for existence is a photo at the bar! What’s more, he has a sneaking suspicion that the girls of Franchouchou are all zombies. In a prior episode, the reporter snapped a picture at the right time exposing Yamada Tae’s head rolling around on the ground. Dude is ready to go public with the story of the girls of Franchouchou being zombies resurrected from the dead unless Kotarou pulls the plug on everything. Kotarou simply said that the girls will get their revenge and will perform at the arena.

And then…a storm hit Saga!

There was a lot of damage around town. And worst off was Kotarou’s place, as it was ripped from its foundation, thrown into the sea, and crumbled into nothing after coming ashore. Worst of all, the special makeup the girls use to hide their zombie state was in that wreckage. Meanwhile, Kotarou spent several days trapped in a bar with the bar owner and nearly drowned. The girls ended up in a safety shelter with nearly the entire Saga prefecture. The good thing is because they’re town celebrities that they were given a top floor to themselves for privacy. The bad thing is that they’ve been here for days and their makeup is starting to come off, exposing zombies. And to make matters worse, that nosy reporter who knows the girls are zombies is also staying at the shelter (though the girls don’t know he knows). The girls decided to use Junko’s doll-crafting paintset to make masks to hide behind. That lasted only five seconds while trying to entertain the children of the shelter.

This is it. The girls are exposed as zombies.

Actually, the kids and parents thought this was part of the act and thought Franchouchou was lifting up the spirits of the arena. And in comes Kotarou just in time! Man, right under the wire. Now we’re like a few days from this planned concert and Saga is still recovering from the huge storm. Morale is quite low and it’s starting to look like a worse outcome for Franchouchou’s revenge than what happened one year ago. Saki used her platform on the radio to reach all of her viewers to see if they could try to come to the arena for their concert that is now a charity concert. So will this concert be a big success or a bigger flop than last year?

Actually, the arena was packed with people. Fans we’ve met in season one and new characters we met this season were even in attendance. Lily’s father ended up clearing away a lot of the debris so that concert goers could get through. Even Iron Frill (Ai’s old group) came in attendance! The concert was a huge success! And can I say that I’m really enjoying Yamada Tae’s Freddie Mercury impression on stage.

Don’t think you’re that clever, Zombieland Saga. We all know!

Yes, the concert was perfect! A great revenge! They even made Kotarou (a grown-ass man) cry. Even the reporter is willing to keep his trap shut (for now) about the girls being zombies. And best of all, NO ONE CAUGHT COVID-19! Yeah, I have to bring that up. The date of the concert was March 8th, 2020. Ahem. March. 2020. But yeah, everything went great. Perfect ending for Zombieland Saga Reven…

AND THEN AN ALIEN MOTHERSHIP COMES IN AND ZAPS THE AREA!

Huh?!

Who wrote that in the script? Some jerkass from Gainax?!

The last 15 seconds of Zombieland Saga leaves us with some sort of unidentified flying object zapping the area. Only Zombieland Saga can get away with this shit. Well folks, let’s see what’s in store for season three, Zombieland Saga: Zombies in Space or Sagapendence Day Zomb-Trek: Deep Space Seven.

Yeah, I know nothing has been greenlit or announced yet, but you know Studio Mappa has something up their sleeves with that ending. Once again, I enjoyed Zombieland Saga’s charm. I didn’t know if there was much more they could offer us after the first season’s stories, like learning how the girls died, Sakura’s past, and especially Lily’s backstory. This season, I wish there was more Yamada Tae. Come on guys, we still don’t know how she died or anything about her past! And what’s up with Yamada Tae being buried next to Sakura? Did they know each other before passing away? I want some answers! But I was blown away when it came to Yugiri’s saga and the tale of Saga itself. We got a literal history lesson about what Saga was once, what it became after a long struggle, the pain some folks went to in order to keep Saga thriving, and all leading up to where we are now.

This was a fun season. I had a lot more fun with the music this season than the previous one. Yeah, believe it or not I liked the songs Franchouchou sang this season than last season. Never a dull moment, especially with Kotarou! Yeah, his crazy-ass was totally there making absolutely no fucka sense. Take that competition Lily entered.

What the fuck was Kotarou doing? That was an epic fail on so many levels.

Well folks, whenever season three or whatever sequel may come, I’m hoping for more information involving Yamada Tae. And you know what else was severely missing from this season, Kotarou’s past with Sakura. I didn’t forget that flashback from season one and those couple of seconds this season aren’t enough to satisfy my hunger. Those are the two things I would like to know more about in whatever comes of the franchise. Otherwise, great time had by all!

Once more, if you are not a fan of idol shows, this is the only one I would highly recommend Zombieland Saga. Crunchyroll has both seasons available for streaming. FUNimation is now dubbing the second season as we speak.

[freebooter4ever]

Sledgefu Pirate Au pt 5?

In which Eugene saves Snafu (again) and they lead the Governor’s troops on a chase, get tossed in jail, and end up at the OMM ball. This got RIDICULOUSLY long, and a bit goofy, I’m so sorry. @persipneiwrites I hope this still fits within your awesome AU and I didn’t go too totally off the rails ^_^ at some point we need to put this on ao3 as like a collab, my friend.

(Eugene has just visited Snafu in jail the night before he’s sentenced to hang as a pirate. He gave Snafu his ring to prove he will come save him, which I turned into a family ring rather than a USMC ring since I don’t know if the marines existed in the 1700′s? Also, Snafu wears a costume inspired by the Order Of Osiris which was Mobile’s first united Mystic Society for all LGBQT. Technically it wasn’t formed till the 1980s but I couldn’t resist. And that’s pretty much the extent of the research I did for this crack fic. Also I completely got their ages mixed up/the timeline of when Merriell joined the service, it’s hard to find info on the real background of Merriell and Eugene, but this way these characters are totally divided from the living heroes. Just fiction here! I gave Merriell a bit of my grandpa’s backstory cause the real history of his parents and sister is just too heartbreaking, I don’t know how to write that)

As Snafu stands on the raised platform, waiting to die, he reflects on his life. There isn't much enthusiasm in the act. None of his lofty dreams came to fruition. And he honestly never expected them to. This short drop and sudden stop, a brutal end to a mostly exhausting life, is exactly what he had anticipated.

One thing is unusual however. In the past, whenever he imagined the day of his death, of all the possible scenarios, a marching band never featured into any of them.

He always assumed he'd go out fighting in a blaze of guts and glory, not with instruments ringing in his ears. 

The steady beat of drums does lend a sort of importance to the day. It gives Snafu something to focus on, other than the fact that his hands are tied, his stomach is empty, and his brain wants to be anywhere but here.

Eugene Sledge clearly doesn't want to be here either.

The man is conspicuously absent. Snafu twists his ring around his finger, spiraling it tighter and tighter in towards his palm. The sharp sting takes away the ache in his chest. He feels Sledge's absence like a physical blow.

Snafu knows he shouldn't have Gene's ring on. One mistaken flap of his hand and the Governor might recognize his own signet on a condemned man's finger. Not that the hell Snafu is currently in could get any worse, but if the ring is recognized then Sledge might be in for hell too. 

Yet he can't bring himself to take the ring off.

He did turn the damn thing around so the large jeweled seal is pressing into the palm of Snafu's clenched fist. To any casual observer the ring looks like a plain gold band. No one will know. Snafu will see to that.

Still protecting the damn idiot boy who throws himself into danger just because it's the right thing to do.

Snafu, on the other hand, usually picks the wrong thing to do. As the executioner so calmly points out while he reads aloud Snafu's list of crimes for the crowd to judge.

Snafu never imagined being important in death. He lived his life with little fanfare, and thought he'd go out the same - as some unknown seaman with scurvy or battle wounds or water in his lungs. 

But the list of his deeds makes it sound like he's had an impact on this world. The loud boom of the drums corroborate this weighty importance. The crowd gathering beneath his feet is there not to see a pirate, but to see him specifically. To witness the final end of Captain Snafu, who got caught up in circumstances bigger than his own life and paid the final price for it.

As his final moment draws closer, Eugene's empty place on the dias next to his father remains blindingly stark. At the beginning of the executioner's long speech, Snafu still had hope. Now, he can't even glance over at the governor and his cronies. He knows Sledge isn't there. And he doesn't want to see it.

Instead he looks to the sky. The hour is a little before dawn, so a few pinpricks of stars are still visible. There's a line of them, marching upwards, away from the stage, that he'd like to follow.

If he had to be famous, he'd rather it be for having a constellation named after him, than for his bones and hat, and a sign with his name on it, hanging rotting from a gibbet.

Snafu rolls his eyes closed and the floor beneath him drops.

He falls.

Surprisingly, he hits the ground. It shoots pain up his legs and he collapses on his side, but that makes it easier for him to look up and see what the fuck happened.

The last thing he expects is Sledge balanced precariously on the platform above him, desperately trying to dislodge his sword from the wooden gallows where he sliced the rope in two.

It almost doesn't look like Sledge. The man's face is half covered by Snafu's lucky hat. Sledge's large nose is the dead giveaway, sticking out by half a mile. Snafu'd recognize that nose anywhere.

Snafu smirks, thinking about the old wive's tale regarding feet and size, and that a more accurate version for Sledge would be the measure of that nose of his.

"Shit, shit, shit," Eugene curses with every tug, glaring at the sword as if it's the sword's fault for getting stuck. He glares with that little purse of wrinkled concentration between his brows. Which Snafu enjoys so very much.

With one final violent jerk, Eugene manages to free his sword from it's prison. But the movement knocks him off balance and he tumbles through the same hole Snafu fell down.

Luckily Snafu is already there to soften his fall. Eugene lands on his back, spread eagle atop the pirate.

"Get your pointy elbow out of my gut," Snafu grumbles, trying to wriggle away.

Eugene hastily rolls off, and crouches beside him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and magically all of Snafu's troubles evaporate. Every thought flies out of his brain, like maybe nothing sensical ever existed there in the first place. Nothing else exists except the slight shock of coming face to face with someone who desperately wants to look at him as much as he wants to look at them.

Someone who has risked his entire life to save Snafu's ass.

Again.

Reality crashes back down on them pretty quick when the executioner's ax falls between their bodies.

Both their heads swivel to the ax in surprise, and then to each other. As if accusing the other for being distracted. 

"Nice of you to finally drop in," Snafu drawls, "Lucky I did so much shit in my life that the long list gave you the extra time." He leans back on his elbow and tries to look as seductive as possible even with both hands tied behind his body.

Eugene scowls, "Nice of you to be so grateful."

Snafu's smile widens gleefully, "Nice of you to wear your best hat."

Eugene's eyes roll upwards towards Snafu's lucky hat's brim. Eugene's scowl deepens as if he only just remembered that he is wearing the monstrosity. He drags it off his head unceremoniously.

Snafu gets one glorious glimpse of the worst case of ginger hat hair he's ever seen before his vision goes dark.

Not because he's blacked out but because Eugene drags the hat forcefully down over Snafu's head and the brim covers his face. Which wouldn't be a problem except that Snafu's hands are literally tied behind his back and he can't push the hat out of his eyesight.

"Gene, not to complain or anything…" Snafu starts.

Eugene says nothing, he focuses entirely on cutting the ropes binding Snafu's wrists as quickly as possible.

Snafu feels the tension of the rope give when Eugene finally breaks through.

The first thing he does is adjust his hat's position and secure the tie under his chin so he can get a better look at Eugene's wonderfully wild hair. The second thing he does with his newfound freedom is grab Eugene's hand and hold on tight like it's the only thing that matters in the world.

They run.

Snafu is faster, and navigates crowds and small spaces easier, so it's mostly him dragging Eugene along. He thinks they're making it, that they'll successfully get away, until a bullet wizzes past his shoulder too close to his head. He yanks Eugene into the nearest alley and they duck behind a giant cart.

"They're shooting at us?" Eugene exclaims incredulously.

Snafu eyes him, "What'd you expect?"

"I… my father wouldn't…" Eugene sputters.

A voice in the distance yells "Ceasefire! For God's sake…!"

Another volley of shots and then the voice yells again "...do not fire on my son!"

The alley goes quiet.

"Eugene, son, please surrender. You can come out peacefully. Captain Haldane is prepared to take you both into custody, there will be a trial."

Eugene and Snafu look at each other.

They're trapped in the alley. It leads to a dead end with a giant wooden fence and absolutely no toeholds.

Snafu presses himself against the wall to try and peer through the crack between the cart and the brick, and he almost stumbles over an iron cellar door.

"Sledgehammer..." he whispers.

Together they wordlessly lift the door open and slip inside. The cellar is dark. It takes a minute for their eyes to adjust from the harsh sun. Snafu makes sure to lock the door behind them. And then he turns.

And finds Eugene standing in the middle of the room rifling through a giant crate. He holds a pink lace parasol in one hand and lifts a brand new muzzle-loaded rifle with the other.

"Looks like smugglers were either trying to sneak weapons into the city in boxes of petticoats, or sneak the ugliest dresses known to man into the city under the guise of weaponry. Hard to tell which is worse," Eugene says, deadpan.

"Eugene, no…" Snafu admonishes, approaching and taking the parasol from his hand, "Pink is not your color, ginger." He swaps the pink parasol for a muted sea grey one.

"No, you keep that one," Eugene shakes his head and hands the grey parasol back to Snafu, barely suppressing his smile, "It matches your eyes."

Snafu grins, snapping open the parasol and twirling it on his shoulder. Eugene leans in closer to him, a hand at Snafu's waist, like he can't resist.

A muffled yell from outside interrupts them, and they both hastily crouch low to the ground.

Snafu carefully climbs to the tiny window grate at street level and listens.

"I think your father is still trying to negotiate with you," he whispers to Eugene, "No one realizes we've moved. Idiots."

He turns to Eugene to discover the man dressed in the most god awful brown frock Snafu has ever seen. The dress has orange and yellow trimmings and clashes with Eugene's hair, like a sunset gone horribly wrong smeared over day old shit.

"Orange ain't your color either, boo," Snafu says mournfully. Eugene might've looked really nice in the powder blue dress Snafu can see peeking out of a bottom crate.

"Here, I found one for you," Eugene says matter-of-fact-ly, tossing a red bundle at him.

"Well at least one of us will match your hair," Snafu comments as he catches it and grimaces with distaste.

They spend the next minute strapping themselves into uncomfortable garments and a single petticoat layer to hang low and cover their boots. Snafu slows them down somewhat when he insists on strapping as many rifles as he can to his legs beneath the skirts.

"Waste not," he says with a wink when Eugene raises an eyebrow at him.

Snafu fills the dress's puffed sleeves with bags of bullets.

Ultimately their getup makes it awful hard to move, but Snafu figures ladies are always having trouble doing anything more complicated than walking in their outfits anyway, so them mincing their steps will hardly stand out as unusual.

They sneak to the ground floor of the building and pause to listen at the front door.

"Okay, plan. We open the parasols as we open the door, and hurry in the opposite direction, like we're afraid," Snafu whispers.

Eugene nods, daintily twisting his pink parasol in his grip.

Snafu nods back. And then pulls Eugene in for a passionate kiss against the door.

Can't give up his last chance to feel Gene sigh softly against him and all that. If this is his last.

"I love you…" Gene mumbles against Snafu's lips.

Snafu's eyes widen. He gropes for the door handle behind his back and throws it wide open, causing them both to stumble out onto the street. 

Good a time as any to get this game started.

Their parasols pop open and they duck underneath the frilly lace.

Eugene titters in a grating fake falsetto voice that makes Snafu want to stamp on his toes. But the disguise works. The Governor's soldiers ceasefire and Snafu and Sledge run, skip, and hobble down the street towards the docks.

When they hit the wood of the decks and can dare to lift the parasols above their faces, the very first thing Snafu sees is the bright splendor of the Santa Alma's sails. The most beautiful sight in the world, floating only fifty feet away.

Next Snafu sees the second most beautiful sight in the world. A beauty that makes him stop short in his tracks: Eugene Sledge shedding his ugly brown orange shell and clambering into a skiff wearing nothing but his green velvet trousers. Rich and soft, the kind of fabric a man could run his hands over for hours.

And Snafu decides then and there that green is definitely Eugene's color.

"Snaf, jump!" Eugene reaches out towards him.

Except Snafu doesn't have time to jump because right at that moment a bullet rips between his legs, shoots a hole through his petticoat, and nearly hits one of the rifles pressed against his bare skin. Snafu immediately stops - frozen like his balls in the Antarctic during that one memorable sailing expedition.

"Hands where I can see them," Captain Haldane tells Shelton, "And Eugene, if you could please step out of that boat real slowly."

Alarmingly Haldane is using the same tone of voice on both of them. Almost friendly...kind...and mildly amused.

Snafu is surprised the man didn't just shoot Snafu on sight and deal with the emotional fallout from Eugene later.

Eugene calmly climbs out of the skiff and shuffles over beside Snafu. He stands tall and stiff as a board, as if he has something to prove.

"Hands out," Haldane orders Snafu mildly.

Snafu sticks out his wrists and lolls his head in a petulant stare.

Haldane gently clasps him in irons.

"Ack Ack, you can't arrest this man," Eugene protests.

"He has to follow orders or he'll be court-marshalled," Snafu reminds Eugene.

"Your friend's right, Sledge," Haldane says, "But I can also see to it that he receives a fair trial."

"Snafu's not my friend," Eugene snaps and then falters, "He's my...Captain."

"That what we're calling it these days?" Snafu grins and knocks his hips against Gene who blushes furiously.

Eugene continues speaking as if he didn't hear Snafu, "Ack Ack, the things I've seen...the way the law treats sailors...I don't know if I trust the courts…"

"Eugene, what were you thinking?" a woman snaps behind them. The sound of smartly heeled boots clips closer and closer down the dock.

Eugene visibly winces at his mother's voice.

Both her and the Governor arrive, surrounded by crisply uniformed soldiers.

"You can't run off like a boy anymore, Gene," his mother says.

"You're mother's right," Governor Sledge agrees, "What you did today must have consequences. Captain Haldane, have you secured the pirate?"

"Not quite," Haldane responds with amusement, "He is still armed, sir."

"Armed? In that dress?"

"Underneath it, I believe, sir."

"Well then," Governor Sledge sighs, "Divest this young man of his...armory."

Captain Haldane nods and starts untying the laces on the back of Snafu's gown. He strips off the overskirt, and petticoats, leaving Snafu standing bare legged in the most raggedy underwear he owns. Eugene standing next to him swallows with great difficulty.

Haldane then begins to slowly cut away the ties holding the rifles to Snafu's body. It's only when the last gun falls away that Snafu feels truly naked.

"Better check the sleeves too, Skipper," Snafu grins maliciously.

Haldane cuts off the bodice. As soon as the man's knife slices through a sleeve, bullets rain down onto the deck like it's hurricane season.

In the end all Snafu's got left is his underwear and the same ratty shirt he thought he was going to die in.

"Shame you had to ruin the dress," Snafu drawls, "Fit me so well."

"Take him away," Governor Sledge orders.

"No!" Eugene demands and puts himself between Haldane and Snafu.

"Eugene…!" his mother is shocked.

Eugene draws himself up and takes a deep breath, "I killed the Royal Navy commander of the Dauntless while acting as a pirate. If you are going to hang Snafu, you better hang me too."

Snafu is too shocked to breathe.

Eugene's father looks grim. "Arrest them both," he says.

The mother faints.

Captain Haldane quietly gestures for Eugene to extend his arms.

That shakes Snafu into action, "No!" he shoves Eugene out of the way, "That's not how it happened. Gene is innocent."

The mother, who had been starting to come round, promptly faints into her servant's arms again at Snafu's familiar use of Eugene's nickname.

Everyone else, including Haldane, ignores him.

"Snaf…" Eugene says warningly.

"No…." Snafu is shaking his head at him in exasperation.

They're both marched up the docks towards the fort.

"No!" Snafu repeats as he stumbles along behind Haldane, "no…"

Eugene goes silently. Willingly.

And it makes Snafu mad as hell.

They're brought to the same cell Snafu thought he'd never see again on account of being dead by morning. 

In front of the cell door they're delayed.

"What's the hold up, Mac?" Haldane asks the warden.

"The master key's run off, no one can find it," Mac shrugs.

"Then find the individual key," Haldane patiently states the obvious.

"I have my best men on it," the warden smiles.

"They seem to be taking a long time, you best go help them Mackenzie," Haldane says.

The man rolls his eyes, but he disappears further into the fort.

"Ack Ack, please, let us go," Eugene requests as soon as the three of them are alone, "We'll leave port. Snafu's ship is set to sail. You can make it look like an escape. No one will know."

"I'm sorry, Sledge," Haldane says, and he sounds genuinely upset. He casually unlocks the irons on both Eugene and Snafu's wrists. It's a gesture of trust Snafu would never have considered had their places been switched.

Snafu stands, fidgeting awkwardly with his underwear and feeling like a third wheel.

Eugene calmly reaches down, grabs Snafu's fidgety hand, and twines their fingers together. He leans into Snafu's shoulder and murmurs, "Pull on that rag anymore and soon you'll be giving everyone a show."

"Like you'd complain," Snafu retorts.

Snafu tries his best to stand still. Though he's grateful Eugene doesn't release his hand.

Haldane observes them with a knowing expression. "Be careful boys," he warns.

They wait in silence the rest of the time it takes Mackenzie to find a key.

"Hey boys," the warden returns and waggles a key in Snafu's face, "you're in luck, I found the small key." 

Snafu casts his eyes to the ceiling.

With a compassionate goodbye, Captain Haldane leaves them to their fate.

The cell door is unlocked and Mackenzie shoves them both in.

A small mercy - keeping them together - or an act of necessity in a relatively small fort, Snafu doesn't know. When the door closes and locks behind them the only thing he focuses on is Eugene's hand in his.

"Looks like it's all over for you two," Mackenzie says, leaning against the cell door. He says it casually, as if trying to start a conversation with an old buddy.

Eugene cuts his eyes to the man outside the cell.

"Sort of a… what do you do now, huh?" Mackenzie's smile is slimy, yet almost genuine. The type of man who can't imagine a life or mind more complicated than his own.

It draws a stark comparison between the supercilious warden versus naive pretty boy Sledge, who's world started out equally as narrow, but who was determined to learn. And to change.

"Here," Mackenzie passes a bottle of rum through the bars, "Everybody deserves a last meal."

"Thank you, sir," Eugene grits out, ever the polite gentleman.

"What an idiot," Snafu says under his breath as he watches the warden leave.

If it weren't for Eugene clinging to his hand in a death grip Snafu might wonder if being alive was worth being back under this asshole's thumb.

Of course, technically it's Eugene's fault for landing Snafu in jail a second time. Otherwise he could be peacefully decomposing right now.

As soon as they are alone Snafu slips out of Eugene's grasp and crosses the cell to the outermost wall. There's a window, high above, nearly level with the ceiling, and Snafu worked out the climbing path on the stone the last time he was trapped in this godforsaken place.

Eugene watches silently as Snafu expertly scales the rock.

Snafu knows Eugene could easily follow. He's seen the boy monkey up rigging enough times to realize that when it comes to heights, Eugene shares the same lack of self preservation sense as Snafu.

But this time Eugene lets him go it alone.

Snafu eases his ass onto the three foot deep window ledge cut into the wall and presses his face against the bars. If he squints he can almost make out the sails of the ships down at the dock. They blur together, though, becoming one massive fluttering speck, like a caught moth.

He sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. There is no way he could recognize the Santa Alma from here even if she did escape in time. When he glances down, he sees Eugene still standing in the same place, staring up at him.

"Take a seat, we'll be here awhile," Snafu drawls, closing his eyes, getting comfortable.

Eugene huffs. But Snafu also hears him drop into the pile of straw in the corner.

"I am aware we will be here awhile, Snaf," Eugene snaps, "I may have never been in a jail cell before, but I do understand the general operating principle."

"Could'a fooled me," Snafu drawls, "The way you were tripping all over yourself to get in here."

"I…" Sledge hesitates yet somehow his voice is still firm, "I told the truth."

"Truth'll get you killed," Snafu says, "And it ain't reality, anyway."

"I did kill the commander, Snaf," Eugene argues.

"You didn't have a choice…"

"I did! I made my choices and I won't take them back."

"You were following my lead...I put you in that situation...your choice was a matter of survival…"

"Snaf, I killed to defend your life. That was my choice. I'd do it again, and I will accept the punishment befitting the crime. I won't let you shoulder all the sins of the world yourself. Especially not mine."

Snafu knocks his head against the wall again out of frustration, and falls into silence. He fiddles with a loose pebble, and then tosses it out the window, watches it splash in the water below.

"Next time my life is in danger and you feel like playing the hero, don't," Snafu spits out.

"You don't get to make that choice," Eugene says, sounding arrogantly pleased with himself at having won this particular conversation.

The next pebble Snafu tosses hits Eugene on the head instead. It bounces off harmlessly.

"Hey!" Eugene exclaims, tilting his head back to glare at Snafu.

Snafu grins.

Eugene folds his arms and shrinks further into the straw.

They sit in silence for what feels like an age. Emotions keep itching under Snafu's skin, and he knows what he wants, but he doesn't know how to get it, or if he even deserves it if he does get it. Snafu watches the sails outside the window come and go freely in the open air to distract himself.

At some point Eugene falls asleep. He sleeps fitfully, with a lot of twitching, but deep enough that Eugene fails to hear the soft clatter of paws on the tile floor.

Snafu silently slides down from his perch and greets Deacon at the cell door. The first thing Snaf does is pocket the offered gift hanging from Deacon's mouth. He sticks both hands through the bars and thanks the puppy by giving him extra scritches.

"Good boy," Snafu whispers as quiet as he can.

His voice wakes Eugene up anyway.

"Shelton?" he asks, groggy, "Deacon?" Eugene pushes himself to his feet and crouches near Snafu, but when he reaches through the bars Deacon ignores Eugene in favor of the pirate.

"I'm his favorite now," Snafu taunts with glee, "We bonded last night. He came and slept right outside my door."

"Only cause I sent him to stand guard," Eugene protests, looking a little jealous. "Isn't that right, Deacon?" he asks the dog as Deacon finally moves from Snaf's hands to Eugene's, "You're a loyal dog."

Snafu leans against the cell door, hand on a hip, and watches Deacon try to lick Eugene's face.

"I'm sorry, Sledgehammer," Snafu says.

"What for?" Eugene asks, looking perplexed.

Snafu shrugs and climbs back up to his window perch. He curls his legs up to his chest and rests his head on his knees.

Eugene heaves a sigh. "Snaf, please stop pouting and stay down here. With me."

"I ain't the one with those thin pursed lips," Snafu taunts, "You look more like the pouting type to me."

Eugene turns bright red - a blush almost as endearing as his little annoyed expression.

"Fine," Eugene says shortly, "Stay up there."

If Snafu climbs down, he'll kiss Gene, and if he kisses him, he might hold him, and if he holds him, Snafu might fall asleep in his arms, and if Snafu falls asleep it's going to be a lot harder to do what needs to be done.

He stays seated at the window and maintains his watch.

Eugene sits against the cell door with one hand stuck through the bars, resting on Deacon's fur.

"I ain't from New Orleans," Snafu confesses, just to fill the silence.

"What?" Eugene looks up, startled, "What do you mean?"

"I'm from northern Louisiana. Born in a one room shack, youngest of nine, took baths in the metal laundry basin, I was always the last with the water so always smelled the worst. Ma died having me, Pa died twelve years later in an accident with a farm gate, I hopped a river boat south, starved on the streets of New Orleans till I stowed away on a navy ship," Snafu says quietly, "Nearly starved there too."

He isn't paying attention to Eugene's movements, so he doesn't notice till it's too late and suddenly Gene is heaving himself up onto the window ledge next to Snafu. Eugene settles in his seat and stares hard as if daring him to protest.

"You deserve better," Eugene says with conviction.

"Oh yeah?" Snafu smiles, "You gonna give me better? Going to pull me out of the dirt and let my siblings rot? Some of them are already rotting. Literally. Six feet under. Can't do nothin for them."

"I know I can't but…"

"They're all just as much poor cannon fodder as I am," Snafu continues, "Not much use except as bodies in a count."

"I don't know any of your siblings…"

"Lucky me then, to be someone you know…"

"Snafu, give it a rest. You're being difficult."

"I'm being honest," Snafu throws Eugene's own words back in his face, harsh.

Eugene grabs his hand, and presses his fingertips against the ring on Snafu's finger.

"Maybe I can't save the world, but I can save you," Gene says softly.

"I'm going to free the world," Snafu counters confidently, with a smile that stretches his face but doesn't reach his eyes, so burdened with the impossibility of his life goals, "That's what freebootin' is all about. The first sign you're ready for piracy: you have a desperate need for freedom."

"I don't understand…"

"You already have it," Snafu says, "That freedom. Bought, paid for, and born into it. Don't need to go looking for it. Waste of your time."

Eugene narrows his eyes. He leans back, takes Snafu's hand with him. He holds Snafu's clenched fist gingerly in his lap. Eugene's thumb trails circles around the base of Snafu's palm. Snafu's skin is particularly sensitive there and every pass of Eugene's calloused thumb sends distracting pulses straight down Snafu's spine.

"Why do you think I was on that shipwreck you pulled me out of in the first place?" Eugene asks.

"Gene…"

"I signed on to Mobile's navy to help people. To keep the port secure. I wasn't going to just sit around and watch while everyone I cared about made sacrifices that I'd never need to face. While everyone else became...cannon fodder," he spits the last word out with shame.

"Gene...'"

"So, yeah. I'd help you free the world. If you'd let me," Eugene concludes.

"Sledgehammer, I'm always gonna end up here," Snafu argues, "One way or the other, I'll get caught. One day it'll stick."

"Not today, it won't."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Not tomorrow either if I…"

"Look into my eyes, and tell me…" Snafu interrupts. He leans forward, pushing into Eugene's space, "...someday if they condemn me and pardon you, are you gonna be able to sit by and watch? Cause no matter what happens between here and there, that's how I'll end."

The hand circling his wrist goes still, limp.

"I'm dying, Sledge," Snafu concludes.

Eugene stares into Snafu's eyes for half a heartbeat, and then closes the short distance between them. Gene drags a hand through Snafu's curls and kisses him like their life depends on it.

And Snafu would be hard pressed to say this isn't what he wanted.

"Promise me," Eugene whispers in between kisses, "Promise me you will accept my choice to die beside you."

Snafu nods mutely and cups his hands around Gene's face.

Eugene pulls Snafu bodily into his lap, which is a little dangerous with them being ten feet off the ground. But Snafu supposes he's set to die anyway, and cracking his head open by falling off a ledge mid pleasure seems like a better way to go than his other option. Besides, up here, they're hidden from view.

When they're finished, a little messy, a little sticky, and having a hell of a time shuffling back into their clothes on such a narrow ledge, they climb back down. Sledge goes first. He jumps down, almost eight feet, and hops a little at the bottom. Eugene turns around and stares up at Snaf, his eyes expectant, waiting to help but not offering it.

Snafu skidaddles down, not taking his eyes off Sledge for an instant. Not checking his momentum, he collides bodily with Eugene, who catches Snafu in his arms and kisses him. Again. If Snafu's going to make a fool out of himself, might as well see it through to the end.

They fall into the straw together, and Sledge holds him close. He finds his ring on Snafu's hand and carefully twists it on Snafu's finger so the black jeweled front is on display for the world. Snafu twines their fingers together and rests his forehead against Gene's, who closes his eyes.

Snafu almost laughs. For the first time since he met Eugene, the boy's breath stinks. Guess no one, not even the Governor's son, gets to meticulously clean their teeth in a jail cell. Snafu gingerly kisses the tip of Gene's nose.

The nose twitches, and this time Snafu actually does laugh. Eugene cracks an eye open, sees Snaf smiling at him, and then pulls him in for exaggerated sloppy kisses until Snafu finally settles down calmly, with his head on Gene's shoulder.

Sledge falls asleep wrapped around Snafu as tight as his damn ring.

Some time later a whistle through the window grate wakes Snafu up from foolish daydreams. He's never in his life been more grateful or frustrated to hear Burgie's voice. Snafu carefully lifts Eugene's arm off his waist and slides out of the other man's grasp. He stands up, and watches Eugene's chest rise and fall with every gentle breath. Sledge is so quiet, he could almost be dead.

If Snafu doesn't leave, Sledge will be dead. If Snafu disappears, however, none of the charges against Sledge can stick. Without any evidence or testimony against Eugene, the boy will be safe. Eugene's crazy, misplaced adventure will be forgotten.

Snafu breaks his promise. He drags Eugene's ring off his finger as he leaves. Eugene sleeps on peacefully, unaware, with the ring resting beside his head.

Snafu silently pulls the jail's master key from his inner pocket and slides it through the bars. He deftly unlocks the heavy cell door. The door creaks as it opens and he pauses, his shoulders hunched and eyes on the floor, waiting, listening. When nothing happens he quickly slips through the crack in the door and swings it shut again. He twists the key in the lock once more, and pockets it.

Maybe if they can't open it, Sledge will stay locked away, secure.

When he looks up from the key, he sees Sledge sprawled out across the floor, his head pillowed on a pile of straw.

It takes every bit of self loathing Snafu has to turn around and walk away. He's always been selfish. Never had no one to care for and no one to care for him.

Eugene Sledge is better off without him.

Snafu slips past the guards, steps outside the fort, breathes fresh air again, and there waiting beside a cart is his faithful quartermaster.

For a while, after he escapes jail, the thrill of reuniting with Burgie, his crew, and his ship provides Snafu with enough adrenaline to forget about the ache in his chest. But starting from the first night aboard ship, Snafu's bed is much too large. He takes a tiny corner of it for himself and piles all the pillows around the other half. He doesn't recall it feeling so big before. He never did take up much space himself.

Eugene, though. Eugene would sprawl out like a starfish. Not in the beginning, but once he started trusting Snafu, once he relaxed. And more often than not, Eugene would end up lying half on top of Snafu. His face so close Snafu could count his freckles, and smell his hair.

He tries to imagine Eugene sleeping in the fancy Governor's mansion. He can't picture it somehow. The only image Snafu's brain conjures is of Eugene sleeping in a jail cell, his expression happy knowing Snafu is nearby.

If he dwells on that too much the guilt sets in, so he mostly tries not to think at all.

He succeeds in not thinking about it until he opens one of his older ship logs and finds doodles scribbled on the margins. The drawings are mostly flowers, and ship instruments; tiny and not particularly detailed. Except for one full page sketch, at the very back of his largest logbook.

It's him. In pristine, exacting detail, down to the last curl on his forehead. Soft, and delicately shaded. The lines of the drawing are fine enough to be almost invisible, like he is looking in a black and white mirror.

The Snafu in the drawing is sleeping, which explains how Eugene got away with it without him knowing.

Snafu slams the book closed and drops it under the table. He vows to not look at it again.

Except he does. Often. Whenever he has an extra minute, he takes the book out, and cracks it open, and runs his finger down the page. As if he can touch the artist's hand through the drawing.

He looks at it so often the graphite starts to smudge.

Eventually the ship makes it to Cape Horn, and Snafu finds the tiny canal Eugene wrote about in his journal. They almost make it through the canal, around the tip, and into open water on track for the Pacific. Except the weather turns dangerous and waves lash the side of the boat, sending a cold shock down Snafu's front. Wet, shivering, and remembering a promise Eugene once made, Snafu makes his own decision.

"Turn her around," he tells Burgie.

Burgie sighs, "Snaf...the men will hate this."

"We'll never make it otherwise," Snafu's eyes are luminous and grave, "Not alone. We need more bodies for this."

"We or you can't make it alone?" Burgie asks.

Snafu sucks on his bottom lip and turns his spyglass to the sliver of clear blue sky in the east. Burgie waits patiently for a minute and when nothing but silence is forthcoming, he strides across the deck to give out new orders.

The crew immediately shares their opinion.

"We're going back for our navigator ain't we?"

"Thank goodness."

"Cap'n would get us lost on a river if we let him."

"Always did think the code 'bout leaving crew behind was a bad one."

Burgie smiles.

As luck would have it, the Santa Alma also encounters a spanish merchant ship on it's way home after pillaging the colonies. The pirate schooner swiftly overtakes the slow merchant and the pirates commandeer the entirety of the ship's stolen native gold.

The Santa Alma also acquires a new passenger. A strong minded girl who goes by the name of Florence and nothing else. No family, no friends, and certainly not a part of the merchant's fleet. She claims her destination is some pacific island called Australia but that she's not picky about the journey to get there. Snafu takes her aboard solely to find out more information on this mystery island if nothing else.

Burgie hastily gives up his private cabin for the girl and starts bunking with the crew himself. Until Snafu gets lonely enough to offer room in his bed for Burgie, which is the worst idea ever because suddenly Snafu finds himself being kept up all night having conversations about girls and courting. A subject which Snafu has zero experience in.

"Just kiss her and be done with it," is the only advice Snafu can offer Burgie.

Luckily Burgie quiets down after that suggestion, although it makes Snafu start to worry he might be down one quartermaster soon.

However, nothing appears to change in the next couple of months and by the time the ship reaches Mobile, Burgie and Florence remain as cordial and distantly polite to each other as ever. Snafu gives it up as a lost cause and goes shopping.

"You look ridiculous," Burgie says after spending an hour assisting Snafu with his costume.

The costume is incomplete by Snafu's standards. He couldn't find a proper crown.  And he had to add decorative elements to his crook and flail himself. But luckily these fancy french balls always seem to require people to wear wigs nowadays anyway. He repurposes a portion of his treasure into jewelry and gold plating. And to top it all off, with the help of an especially hairy crew member, Snafu procures a beard long enough to be strung underneath his costume mask.

"I look proper," Snafu jokes to Burgie, using his crook as a dandy cane.

"You look like a royal court jester," Burgie counters, "All that purple and gold."

"Exactly," Snafu says confidently.

"He looks like a gold crusted emu," is Florence's opinion, which puzzles both Snafu and Burgie greatly. "From Australia," she adds. As if that explains anything.

"The breeches might be a little wide, Shit-N-Ass," Leyden comments.

"No one asked you," Snafu retorts.

All that matters is that he will be unrecognizable at Mobile's OMM ball.

His coach is almost unrecognizable too. The leather covering the tiny, odd shaped thing is stained and bleached from the sun. If Snafu holds a candle up to it the shade is nearly a perfect match for Eugene's hair. Except brighter.

"Does it turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" Snafu asks, sneering at the orange color.

"It's either this or the dung cart, Snaf," Burgie says, "You spent the entirety of your treasure allotment on your outfit."

Orange coaches notwithstanding, it's thanks to his expensive drapery that no one blinks twice when Snafu sails past the guards, up the fort steps, and through the entrance. Everyone assumes he is a visiting wealthy gentleman from some distant city, here to experience Mobile's Mardis Gras celebrations. His costume works flawlessly. No one remembers him as the pirate they tried to hang a year ago.

The only downside to everyone being in disguise is that he can't find Eugene.

He doesn't spend long looking inside the fort. It's dusty and suffocating, and Eugene was more the outdoors type anyway. Instead he takes his search to the gardens.

As he walks, Snafu sticks to the shadows. Despite looking the part, he still feels out of place, so he skulks from tree to tree. He avoids the stark yellow light cast by the candle lanterns strung overhead. And only surfaces to peer cautiously around every mile high brushed and powdered wig to see if the person's face matches the one he is looking for.

Of course the person he is looking for is the only person not wearing a wig or mask.

Eugene Sledge's brilliant copper hair sparkles

 under the lantern light. Snafu is momentarily blinded by it the minute he finally recognizes the back of the head he is staring at. Trust Gene to buck convention and attend a ball with a bare head. He is dressed plainly too in comparison to the other party goers. His jacket is unadorned and his trousers are simple cotton. There's a single flower stuck in the lapel of Eugene's coat and Snafu sneaks closer to see if he can recognize it from Eugene's logbook drawings.

Snafu never meant to be creeping around in the dark. And he certainly never meant to eavesdrop on a private conversation.

It starts when a familiar looking, excessively handsome blond man brings Eugene a drink. The man can't be much older than either of them, but he wears his military rank with ease. He lacks a wig as well, but Snafu can hardly blame the man for it, considering how shiny his natural hair is. He and Eugene almost match, somehow. As if they've known each other long enough to become the same person in habit and gesture.

Their open familiarity with each other sends a rush of jealousy down Snafu's throat. He might vomit, if he isn't careful.

When he hears the other man try to cajole Eugene onto the dance floor, Snafu's first reaction is to slink off petulantly into the night. To disappear and never return. His whole body burns, and he finds himself grinning murderously.

But then Sledge says "No".

Sledge says 'no' very stoutly, and his face is mournful. Almost as if he is missing someone.

And the handsome man returns to the dance floor alone.

Something has soured Eugene's enjoyment of the gala's frivolity and splendor. 

Snafu wonders if maybe it was him.

The world of these galas was always a farce, Snafu wants to tell Sledge. The crowd all gentlemen by government decree; the appearance of nobility rather than the act.

This elegance is unsustainable, this generational wealth built on the backs of stolen labor. To exist within it is to be complicit. As far as Snafu can see the only way to escape the monster society created is to run away and not look back.

Run with me, Snafu wants to say, Run with me and we can be free.

He doesn't say any of that, though. He merely holds his chin high, straightens his back, and steps closer till he is directly behind Eugene's shoulder. Snafu removes his mask for this moment. It is crucial Gene recognize him.

He takes a deep breath.

He hesitates because he almost doesn't want to see how Eugene's mood will change. Whether it turns to anger, or frustration, or worse - nothing.

Then he clears his throat. Takes careful note of the way the back of Eugene's neck tenses.

"I only dance when Eugene Sledge wants to dance," Snafu quotes. He mimics Eugene's accent flawlessly, throwing a bit of his own swagger in for good measure.

Eugene slowly turns around. His eyes are wide with shock as they sweep over Snafu's body, from head to toe. He says nothing, but his mouth gapes a little, like a fish.

"Referring to yourself in third person now?" Snafu asks, "Better be careful...that's the second sign of becoming a pirate." He can't bring himself to meet Eugene's eyes, so Snafu watches the other guests strolling through the garden behind Eugene's head.

Sledge's mouth snaps shut. His shock turns into a glare. He steps forward and invades Snafu's space. It's the kind of close proximity a gentleman might instigate in order to challenge him to a duel. Snafu expects to be slapped with a glove.

Instead Sledge snatches Snafu's carefully powdered wig off his head. He throws the poor thing to the ground, stomps on it, and grinds it into the dirt. The embittered frown on Sledge's face never wavers.

"That was very expensive," Snafu drawls conversationally as he stares at the sad deflated mess of grey hair on the ground between them. 

"It looked awful on you," Eugene says bluntly.

"Least it's not my head being flattened," Snafu shrugs, nudging the destroyed wig with a toe. He feigns nonchalance. Inwardly his heart soars, higher than a bird. Sledge still cares. Sledge is angry, but his anger means he still cares.

"Don't tempt me," Eugene snaps.

Snafu finally raises his eyes to meet Eugene's. "Thought I already did that," Snafu says with a challenging grin.

Eugene is taking measured breaths, and his hands are shaking just a tiny bit, like he is holding himself back. "You were not a temptation…" he says, softer and without anger, "You were just...you."

Snafu doesn't know how to respond to that.

"Who are you supposed to be, anyway?" Eugene asks, drawing his eyes up and down Snafu's form, taking in both him and his costume.

Snafu struts a little and holds his mask over his face for Eugene to see, "You can't guess?"

Eugene rolls his eyes, "Some kind of King?"

"Osiris" Snafu says proudly.

"Who?"

"An Egyptian god," Snafu explains, "One who casts judgement on the dead."

"It suits you," Eugene says.

Snafu grins, stands a little taller.

"Especially considering the lack of shirt," Eugene adds snidely.

"The cape and mantle sort of make up for that," Snafu says.

"Yes, that is an impressively vibrant color of dye," Eugene comments. He pulls at the top of the cape and draws it outward, away from Snafu's body to see the sheen of the fabric as it cascades around his hand.

"And this?" Eugene knocks his hand against the wooden staff tucked in Snafu's belt.

"A flail," Snafu says, "To go with my golden crook." He holds out the cane he's been leaning his weight against.

Eugene steps closer, takes the crook, taps it expertly, "Real gold? Business must be going well."

"Booming," Snafu says sarcastically through his teeth.

Eugene chuckles, "Any more Navy ships?"

"Not yet," Snafu replies, "We'll see how tomorrow goes."

Eugene gives Snafu back his crook and tweaks the beard on Snafu's mask instead. Snafu moves the mask away from his face and slips it into his belt alongside the flail.

They're so close, Snafu can smell the tobacco on Eugene's breath. 

'Touch me,' Snafu wants to beg, 'Stop touching my clothing, touch me instead.'

They stand in silence for a time.

Eugene's hands return to his pipe.

Snafu studies the flower attached to Eugene's coat.

"Never seen you draw that flower before," Snafu notes.

"Never had a reason before," Eugene replies.

"What's your reason now?" Snafu eyes him warily.

"Sentimental," Eugene says, "Traveled all the way to the Louisiana swamp looking for someone...didn't find them. But I brought a cutting of these home so I'd have at least something to show for the trip." He pockets his pipe, slips the blue iris off it's clip and holds the flower out to Snafu, "They grow beautifully in my garden at home."

It's identical to the kind of irises that grow in wild bunches around the shack where Snafu was born.

"You saw where I came from?" Snafu asks, nervous.

"I did," Eugene actually smiles. Softly. Fondly, like it was a good thing.

It baffles Snafu to no end, but he tries to take it in stride.

"The shack used to be a chicken coop," Snafu grins back, "Was probably better as a chicken coop."

"There's an alligator living in it now," Eugene holds the flower out for Snafu, "I had to fight it for this."

"How brave." Snafu doesn't take the offered flower. "What were you looking for? In the swamps?" he asks.

Sledge's hand drops to his side. "Damn it, Snaf. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"Might help, my spelling is atrocious, you should know better than anyone," Snafu taunts.

"F," Sledge says haughtily, "U...C...K…" he takes another step closer, trodding on Snafu's wig. "Y...O...U…" Sledge doesn't even have to reach to grab the collar of Snafu's jacket, they're so close. "S...H...E...L…"  Sledge closes his lips around the stem of the iris to hold it while he unpins the flower clip from his own coat and pokes it in Snafu's collar instead. The tension around Sledge's mouth forms Snafu's favorite tiny crease between his eyebrows. "T..." Sledge slips the Iris into the clip and smooths the front of Snafu's jacket, "O...N."

"Captain," Snafu corrects, blatantly watching Eugene's lips form each letter.

Gene's eyes flash. He grabs Snafu's collar - forcefully this time - and yanks him into a kiss. Snafu nearly jumps out of his skin in shock.

The kiss lasts less than a second. Snafu shoves Eugene away. His eyes anxiously dart towards the small crowd in the garden. Eugene follows his fearful gaze, and then wraps his long fingers around Snafu's wrist. He drags Snafu through the trees until they come to a hedge maze.

The maze is overgrown. At one point it might have been one of those carefully manicured french monstricities, no bigger than knee height, meant for casual amusement of the European aristocracy, and replicated poorly in the colonies. Now the hedges are well over six feet tall, and thick with tangled branches. Eugene and Snafu barely manage to fit through the entrance.

But the hedges promise privacy.

The air inside the maze is still, and silent, and damp, and slightly cooler than the humid evening around them.

After turning a few corners, Eugene shoves Snafu against a hedge. The bush is prickly, and not at all comfortable, but Snafu finds it hard to care when he is distracted by the press of Eugene's lips, and Eugene's body, and the pleasant intensity of Gene taking all his frustration out on Snafu in ways better than wig destruction.

Without words it feels as if no time passed between tonight and the last they saw each other. Snafu is as familiar with Eugene's body now as he was months ago. Eugene briefly lets go of Snafu's waist to undo his own belt and the buttons of his trousers. Snafu hastily shoves his hand down Eugene's pants himself before the other man can get to it. He breaks off their kiss, chest heaving, to lean back against the bush and curl his fingers around Gene's dick. Eugene braces a hand on either side of Snafu's head and hovers there. He makes a small, strangled noise when Snafu's hand starts to move, but he doesn't look away. Snafu's mouth goes dry and he hardly dares to breathe for fear of breaking whatever the fuck this moment is.

Slowly, he jerks him off, staring into Eugene's dark eyes the whole while.

Eugene makes a complete mess of his pants. He buttons his doublet closed, and smoothes it neat, before hungrily reaching for the red sash wrapped around Snafu's waist.

After a fumbling attempt to get Snafu's clothes off (during which Snafu immediately regrets making his costume so complicated - "Don't. It's fine," Snaf mutters with his hand on Eugene's), Eugene gives up and simply grabs Snafu's hips, and collapses towards him in an embrace. Surprised by the sudden switch to calm, Snafu reacts by limply draping his arms over Gene's shoulders, and waiting.

Eugene turns his face into the crook of Snafu's neck and fully encircles his arms around his body. "God, Snaf," he groans.

"Eugene?" Snafu asks.

Eugene doesn't respond. Snafu can feel Gene's eyelashes blinking against his neck where he is hiding his face.

"Gene?" Snafu tries again.

Eugene sighs. He kisses Snafu's bare skin.

"We should talk," Snafu prompts.

Eugene actually laughs. "Now you want to talk," he says without lifting his head.

"S'what I came here for," Snafu says.

"What is it you wanted to say, then?" Eugene asks, leaning back just enough to look Snaf in the eye.

I love you.

"Nothing," Snafu says, "Thought maybe you might. Maybe a few words to get off your chest?"

Eugene smiles sadly, and leans back in to press their lips together briefly. One small kiss and then he rests his forehead against Snafu's.

"Hope. And faith." Eugene murmurs.

"Hm?" Snafu grunts.

"The flower I found. Irises. They symbolize faith," he fumbles that same heavy ring off his finger that Snafu threw back at him, and then slides it onto Snafu's hand for a second time, "I told you to keep it. I meant what I said."

Snafu stares into his eyes, "Gene…I'm sorry."

"I never doubted you," Gene brushes aside his apology.

Something crazy is on the tip of Snafu's tongue and threatening to spill out, so he keeps his jaw clenched tight and his forehead pressed to Gene's. It's enough. This is enough.

"Stay?" Eugene asks.

Snafu fidgets nervously.

"Here. For a few days," Eugene elaborates, "I've taken care of everything. I want you to meet my family, properly. You can even invite the crew."

"Third sign of piracy: extending dinner invitations to pirates," Snafu drawls. He's imagining Burgie's reaction to getting a cream colored, floral embossed card in the mail.

"Privateers. You are an official United States privateer, Captain Shelton," Eugene corrects. He laughs at Snafu's startled expression, "I have the paperwork all drawn up. It's in my room. Waiting for your signature."

"In the mansion…"

"Yes, to do this you'll have to go to the governor's mansion. You might even have to sleep in an actual bed that doesn't rock up and down with the waves."

"That takes all the fun out of sex…" Snafu murmurs.

"I'm sure I can improvise," Eugene kisses his neck with a smile.

"Will you be doing the rocking then?" Snafu quips.

"For as long as you want…" Eugene promises.

Snafu nods and kisses him, tries to quell that ache that's bubbling up inside him again.

Eugene breaks away, grinning ear to ear. He looks at Snafu as if all his prayers have been answered. And who is Snafu to deny him any of it.

So when Eugene takes his hand and leads him out of the maze, Snafu follows.

He is so dazed by an emotion he never thought himself capable of feeling again he almost doesn't notice where Eugene is leading him. Until he recognizes the same inner courtyard where Snafu was condemned to die. 

Snafu stops short. His abrupt halt yanks Eugene back by his arm. Gene turns around and stares at Snafu in confusion. Snafu is preparing to run. His palms are sweaty, and the skin there feels melted to Eugene's, and he's about to twist away and disappear when Eugene's hold on him tightens. 

Eugene is looking Snaf straight in the eye, and he slowly lifts their clasped hands to his lips, "It's all right, Merriell. I promise." 

And in full view of the Governor's entire court, Eugene Sledge bends to kiss Snafu's hand. The same hand Snafu recently stuck down Gene's pants.

No one says anything.

All eyes are on them, though.

Correction, all eyes are on Snafu. His planned ostentatiousness backfires. Eugene notices him, for sure. But so does everyone else.

His costume glows golden in the candlelight. If the glint half blinds him when he moves in the wrong way, he can't imagine how difficult it must be for someone standing across from him.

Snafu grins petulantly when Eugene guides him forward to stand in front of the Governor himself. He can tell Eugene's father recognizes him immediately. The man frowns. He shakes Snafu's hand politely, but he doesn't speak a word.

Surprisingly, it's the Governor's lady who breaks the tension. She eyes her husband calculatingly, sucks in a deep breath, and reaches out to take both of Snafu's hands in hers.

"I want to apologize for the previous case of mistaken identity," She says, regally and with great intent, "As I understand it, Commodore Haldane confused you with the dreadful pirate Snafu. I assure you, Captain Shelton, we will rectify this mistake and will remain forever grateful to you for bringing our Eugene back home alive."

Snafu's eyes slide sharp towards Eugene, realizing for the first time how the boy must have brought about this miracle of clearing his name.

Eugene returns Snafu's stare with a confident grin. He rejoins their hands and pulls Snafu off to the buffet table. A very smart decision as he is going to need a full belly to stomach all this nonsense.

Contrary to popular opinion, food on a ship is not half bad. Burgin keeps their cook happy with the third highest salary on board and frequent stops in port for fresh supplies. Snafu's diet as a child on land, however, was regularly lacking. His father was a failed farmer, and boiled cabbage soup was their evening meal more often than not. So Snafu supposes his standards for good food are not as high as most people's.

But this buffet laid out before him at the Governor's ball? This is a masterpiece. 

Snafu immediately heads straight for the pork chops. He loads up a plate and even concedes to taking utensils and a napkin when Gene offers them.

"Just so you know, we're going back for seconds," he informs Eugene. Eugene chuckles, and holds Snaf's plate for him while he pours them both drinks.

They find a table under a tree to sit and eat. If Snafu must use a fork and knife instead of his fingers, he's gonna need two hands to do it. And that shit's not possible while standing.

Eugene scoots his chair conspicuously close to Snafu's. But the low hanging branches of the willow tree partially conceal them from view, so Snafu allows it. After he finishes his first plate, he does indeed go back for seconds, and thirds. And then Eugene lights his pipe and they pass it back and forth. Their shoulders and legs are pressed together, and Eugene's arm reaches behind Snafu's neck to rest along the back of his chair. Sometimes when Eugene leans in to gently lift the pipe from Snafu's hand, he whispers in his ear and his nose brushes his cheek.

At one point Snafu makes a particularly cutting remark about the state of one unfortunate gentleman's coat, and Eugene starts laughing. He laughs so hard at the joke he leans his hand against Snafu's back and hides his face in his shoulder. Snafu has never seen Gene laugh like that. Ever. A wave of relief washes over Snafu and for a minute he forgets himself and tucks a stray lock of hair behind Eugene's ear.

His gesture is altogether too much like a caress, and he remembers with cold fear, that they are out in the open.

The minute Snafu's fingers leave Eugene's skin, his nerves are back. He darts a glance towards the Governor's dias and he freezes in place. The harsh sensation of a particular pair of eyes boring into the back of Snafu's head takes him out of whatever spell he'd been under making him feel like he and Eugene were the only two people in the room.

Snafu may have the weight of a ring on his finger, but the thousand yard stare of Governor Sledge holds the weight of the world. And every bit of it exudes disapproval.

It chills Snafu to his bones.

At the end of the party, after they've returned to the Governor's mansion, Snafu is shown to an opulent room by an opulently dressed butler. Eugene disappears somewhere down the hall. And Snafu finds himself standing alone, wearing his gold plated costume, inside a masterpiece of a room, feeling an utter fool.

He removes all his jewelry and unwraps his sash. He drags the covers off the bed and makes his own nest in front of the roaring fireplace. He curls up and he tries to sleep.

He is interrupted when Eugene mysteriously appears in Snafu's room through a hidden door behind a bookshelf.

Gene laughs at Snafu's floor nest, and helps Snafu pull the blankets back onto the bed.

Eugene then helps Snafu out of his costume, and this time he succeeds.

They fuck tenderly atop silk sheets and plush pillows. And the way Eugene whispers "Merriell" in his ear is almost enough to make Snafu forget he is here on borrowed time. Almost.

Right as Snafu is about to finally fall asleep there is scratching and a thud against the bedroom door, and for a second Snafu's heart stops at the fear they've been caught. But Eugene simply chuckles and wraps an arm around Snafu's bare waist in a quick hug.

"Go answer it," he says with a kiss to the nape of Snafu's neck.

Eugene lets go of Snafu and reclines back against the pillows, his eyes twinkling.

Snafu grunts about spoiled Governor's sons and casts his eyes overhead to the four poster bed's velvet canopy, but he drags Eugene's breeches on and does as he is told.

On the other side of the door waits a very patient dog. Deacon wags his tail excitedly and the dog's entire body wiggles. Snafu immediately crouches down to greet him and gets a few licks to his face in return. Snafu nearly falls over, but he moves to the side enough to get the dog in the room and the door closed.

"You were missing your master, huh?" Snafu asks Deacon, scratching under the dog's ear.

"He was missing you," Eugene speaks up from the bed, "This entire week, he has done nothing but stare out the window at the ocean and whine. If I didn't understand exactly how he felt, I might have been jealous."

"That's the real reason I've come back," Snafu says as he wriggles back out of Gene's pants and crawls into bed, "To steal your dog and turn him pirate."

"Guess if you've already got one of us, you might as well have the whole set," Eugene replies, drawing Snafu close and insisting on a kiss before letting Snafu settle his head against Eugene's shoulder. Deacon happily curls up at the foot of the bed.

The next morning he wakes to find that somehow during the night Snafu ended up flat on his back with Eugene sprawled across his body and Deacon stretched out across his feet. He is completely unable to move.

Snafu snakes his arm out from underneath the covers and tickles Eugene's ear. Eugene twitches in his sleep. Snafu stays persistent with the tickling until Eugene rolls over, almost accidentally knees Snafu in the groin, and is woken by Snafu's panicked yelp.

With Eugene awake the tickling quickly turns into a wrestling match, which Snafu almost wins. He straddles Eugene and pins Gene's hands above his head. Snafu presses teasing, featherly light kisses across Eugene's collarbone until Deacon barks and a sharp knock on the door interrupts them. Eugene bucks Snafu off him, dives underneath the blankets and slides down the bed in a lump like a coward, leaving Snafu on his own.

"Yeah?" Snafu calls out with as much authority as he can muster. He holds the bedcovers tight over his waist, but his hands won't stop shaking.

It doesn't help that Eugene chooses to put his mouth somewhere very distracting on Snafu's body right as the door unlocks and opens.

"Deacon's food is waiting for him downstairs," the butler says kindly, "Would you like your breakfast brought to your room?"

"Ah, no," Snafu improvises, "I will...uh...be out. Shortly."

Deacon jumps off the bed and trots out the door, tail wagging.

The butler nods and backs out of the room.

"Thank you!" Snafu adds belatedly to the closing door.

Once they're alone again, Snafu yanks back the blankets covering Eugene and finds his lover shaking with silent laughter and the worst case of bedhead he's ever seen.

"Asshole," Snafu accuses him, refusing to give in to the urge to run his hands through Gene's hair - a vibrant red in the morning light.

Instead Eugene pulls him down, silences him with a kiss, and they're both rather late for breakfast.

Snafu stays in the mansion for three days. He doesn't send Burgie any dinner invitations, knowing how well they'd be received, but he does mail a monogrammed card letting the crew know he's safe. He includes a handful of stolen silver artifacts in the parcel to appease any pirate tempers.

Every afternoon Eugene closes them both in the study and forces them to go over page after page after page of legal documents. Snafu attempts to read a few lines here or there, but mostly he only serves as a distraction. His hands wander of their own free will, and they both continually risk getting caught with Snafu's hands up Eugene's shirt or on his thigh, or tracing the line of Eugene's mouth.

"Pay attention," Eugene huffs with as much frustration as Snafu felt when Eugene kept trying to pry Snafu's attention from his maps.

"I am," Snafu insists, trailing his finger down Eugene's neck and studying the way the scruff of his hair stands on end.

"To something other than me," Eugene admonishes.

"Impossible," Snafu leans back on the cushy window seat and admires Eugene's profile against the sunlight. He grins devilishly, crosses his arms behind his head, and adjusts the seat of his hips in a languid manner. Snafu has never had this much free time to indulge in all his urges and he is determined to enjoy it thoroughly.

Eugene stops pretending to read the paper he is holding and glares at Snafu out of the corner of his eye.

It only makes Snafu smile wider.

"Fuck it," Gene says. He drops the page to the ground, plants a hand firmly on the windowsill, and leans over to kiss Snafu with wild passion. Snafu laughs between kisses and Eugene wraps an arm around his waist and tightens his hold, lifting Snafu off the seat until there is no air left between their bodies.

Then the locked door to the study opens.

Snafu drops his arms from around Gene's shoulders and goes still and silent. Eugene sits up, immediately alert. But bizarrely his hand falls atop Snafu's thigh and prevents Snafu from moving his leg off Eugene's lap. Snafu is left lying awkwardly on his back like a turtle, one leg still around Eugene's waist, the other shoved up against the cold glass windowpane, bent as far away from Gene as he can get it. The tent in Snafu's loose breeches is painfully obvious, and his mind is racing, calculating every possible exit from the room. There is only one thing keeping him in place and it's Eugene.

Unfortunately Eugene's strong grip on Snafu's upper thigh only worsens his state of arousal.

The Governor himself calmly looks at them, walks into the room, and closes the door behind him.

"Did you get all the necessary documents signed?" the Governor asks in a tired voice.

"Yes," Sledge replies defiantly, his shoulders straight, his chin high.

Snafu can barely breathe, let alone talk.

"Good," the Governor remarks politely, "I trust Captain Shelton will be setting out on his first officially sanctioned voyage soon."

Snafu's eyes dart between Eugene and the Governor in a panic, trying to guess what his answer should be.

"Actually," Eugene says, "He's staying here. Indefinitely." His tone is light but his accent is sharp.

Snafu, for his part, is still blinking like a fox caught outside its hole.

"Very well," the Governor says solemnly. He stands in the middle of the carpet, and makes no move to leave, even though they are all sitting in silence.

After a minute the Governor lifts his head and gazes out the window beyond where they're sitting. "It's a beautiful day today," he says casually, "I think I might organize a hunt." And with that he takes his leave. The door closes behind him gently. They hear the lock click back into place.

"Shit fuck, he's gonna kill me," Snafu claws at his face with his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"No," Eugene says calmly. He releases Snafu's leg and Snafu curls in on himself like the turtle he feels. "He won't," Gene promises.

Snafu groans.

"Snafu," Eugene says, trying to grab Snafu's hands behind the protective barrier of his legs. "Merriell…" Eugene eventually succeeds in wrapping his fingers around both of Snafu's wrists and uncovering his face. 

Snafu lets his knees fall open in defeat. He stares at Gene between his legs balefully.

"I love you," Eugene tells him. Certainty is written all over his face.

Snafu doesn't know how Eugene manages to look at him with such intense affection when they're surrounded by so much fear.

"Father is the only one who has the keys to this study," Eugene says, "I trust him. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Snafu's response is immediate and uncompromising.

Eugene lets go of Snafu's wrists and twines their fingers together instead. Snafu uses the grip to pull himself into a sitting position. He takes a moment to run his eyes over Eugene's serious face. His chest presses into the side of Eugene's shoulder.

"I trust you with my life, Gene," Snafu confesses.

"Then stay," Eugene says, and closes the deal with a chaste kiss.

That night the two of them fall asleep in Eugene's own bed instead of the guest room. Snafu luxuriates in the comfort of being utterly surrounded by reminders of Gene.

But this time Snafu wakes up alone. 

He hears a knock. Not on Eugene's door, but on the door of the guest room down the hall. Snafu falls off the bed in his haste to both yank his pants up over his ass and trigger the bookcase to open the secret passageway. He manages to get back in his room, slip on his shoes, and open his door by the time the impatient person looking for him knocks a third time.

"The Governor wishes to see you," the butler says.

"Right," Snafu nods, scratching the back of his neck and makes as if to step into the hall when the butler places a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Perhaps Sir should put on a shirt?" the butler smiles in a fatherly manner.

"Ah…" Snafu glances down at his bare torso and retreats inside his room to fish out something respectable.

"Perhaps a coat as well?" the butler once again poses the suggestion as a question.

Snafu gets the distinct feeling he is receiving advice. He hunts through the wardrobe and holds out a deep purple velvet ensemble for review.

The butler smiles and shakes his head discreetly.

Snafu presents two more outfits before they decide on a smart grey number made of flawlessly tailored rich fabric but without a lot of frills.

"Good luck," the butler whispers to Snafu before leaving him outside the door to the Governor's private library.

Snafu has already spent many hours in the family library. It's the only room in the mansion he actually likes. The Sledges own a copy of every single overseas expedition logbook Snafu could possibly want. Sailing is clearly a pastime both Eugene and his father enjoy.

This is the first time, however, that Snafu is given the privilege of seeing the Governor's personal book collection.

As soon as he walks through the door, the first thing to catch Snafu's eye is a large, exquisitely detailed globe resting in its own golden stand on the floor to the right. He itches to lay his hands on it, and he barely manages to restrain himself before the high backed chair turns and the Governor sets his eyes on him.

For a split second Snafu's breath leaves him. But then, he relaxes. He tilts his head with a small smile, and crosses the room to the globe. He ignores Eugene's father in favor of running his finger down the eastern coast of the Americas. Keeping his finger on the surface of the globe, he rotates it until he is touching China, and then the East Indies. He lifts his hand, spins the globe, and stops it with a touch.

He shifts his finger aside and reads the name of the country he landed on.

Japan.

"How much?" the Governor asks plainly.

"What?" Snafu's head jerks up.

"How much money can I offer to make you disappear from my son's life?" the Governor folds his hands on his desk and looks at Snafu pleasantly.

Snafu stares in shock, processing this new information.

"If you are killed, Eugene will mourn you forever as if you were a martyr. But if you leave, he will forget you," Governor Sledge explains.

"If I leave he'll miss me forever," Snafu taunts, smiling.

"You want to leave," Governor Sledge points out, "I can see it. Eugene certainly sees it. You are restless here. You have nothing here, except him. Let go of him. And I will give you any amount you ask for."

Snafu honestly considers it. Considers that - if Sledge's family truly hate Snafu that much - leaving Eugene alone might be the best decision for both of them. Considers how much Eugene loves his family, enough to risk his life to get back to them, to lie to a pirate. Considers the fact that the kind of money Governor Sledge is talking about could probably get Snafu across the pacific and back five times over. Considers how often Snafu has seen Sledge genuinely smile back home with his familiar comforts compared to his scowls aboard ship.

"I'd break his heart," Snafu says before his throat chokes closed. He coughs. His eyes sting.

"Exactly," Governor Sledge agrees amicably.

Snafu laughs. He hates how it sounds wild and a little despairing, even to his own ears. He can feel a grin on his face, mouth stretched so wide his muscles already ache.

"Well," Snafu bites his lip. He spins the globe again, faster. And this time he lets his finger drag against the curved surface, intentionally stopping it right over the port of Mobile. He looks up, and saunters to the desk, pulling Eugene's ring off and holding it high for the Governor to see.

"You want me gone that badly, I'll do it for free," Snafu offers, "But I'm keeping this." He closes his fist around the ring.

Taking a leather cord strung with keys from the corner of Governor Sledge's desk, Snafu unhooks the clasp and carelessly dumps the keys to the floor. He slides the ring onto the cord, knots it in the middle to keep the ring secure, and hooks the clasp around his neck.

"He'll know," Snafu says as he stuffs the necklace down his shirt front, "No matter what lies you tell him, he'll know. And he'll come after me."

The Governor doesn't respond, and Snafu turns his back on him to walk out the door. He'd take the globe with him, too, if he could think of a way to lift it on his own.

Snafu leaves the estate without another word to anyone. The relief he feels when he walks past the final gatehouse is palpable. He can breathe easier again out here, in the fresh air. And when he reaches the docks his confidence in life soars the minute he sees the Santa Alma waiting patiently in the bay. For the next few weeks he remains confident every time the crew sets sail, charting a course that wins them easy prizes while staying within a couple days reach of Mobile. They make berth regularly in the port, the crew eagerly enjoying the extra shore leave and spending money.

But after the first month passes and there is no sign of Eugene, Snafu's confidence dwindles. By the sixth month the heavy weight of the ring around his neck is no longer a security but an anchor. More time passes, and after the second full year spent alone, Snafu gives up hope.

He begins to plan another voyage around Cape Horn. This time enroute to Japan.

(My sketch of Pirate Snafu)

(the END for now, i swear they get back together, i promise, eugene didnt forget he’s just busy and he thinks snaf is an asshole who left without saying goodbye. if you want to see more PLEASE TELL ME cause i might do it)

[ayoitsabi]

Title: Lashing Out

Show: Teen Wolf

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Derek Hale, Peter Hale

Words: 2202

Summary: The Alphas have kidnapped Lydia and are nowhere to be found. Stiles is desperate to find her, and the lack of information isn't making things better. Stiles, growing impatient, couldn't hold it in any longer and snapped. Inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr. (One-Shot).

Authors Notes: Trigger warning for a panic attack scene, please read at your own risk. Set around the beginning of Season 3

[AO3]

Lydia is nowhere to be found, no one has seen or heard of her for the past 24 hours. That's just fucking great . Everyone in the pack has been ordered to meet up at Derek's loft to deal with the situation. Most of the pack were there already. The only ones who were missing were Boyd and Isaac, who at the moment were out in the streets trying to track down Lydia's scent.

Stiles, who was one of the first ones to show up, immediately started to ask millions of questions at that very moment since arriving but didn't give time for anyone who arrived soon after to answer when he followed up with a million more. He did not even realize that he hadn't taken a breath in between questions until Scott rested his hand on his shoulder and was able to take a breath.

"We don't know anything yet, Stiles," he answered, pretty much the answer to all the questions he had already asked and was going to ask.

"What do you mean ' you don't know anything? '" Stiles slapped the hand right of him and began to pace back and forth, the last thing he wanted right now was to be either touched or comforted. There's no time to do any of that. "Standing around here isn't going to help us find Lydia sooner, so why the hell are we even here and not looking for her?!"

Derek, who was leaning against the wall next to his younger sibling, Cora, didn't react to the angry teenager's outburst. He kept his arms crossed in front of him keeping an eye on Stiles and his actions.

"The Alphas could be hiding her anywhere, Stiles," Derek responded as he stood off from the wall and walked towards the group who stood what was almost a circle. Still focused on Stiles, he continued, "We need to look for a trail to find the exact location of where she is being kept. We can't just all run around the town looking for her, that could take a lot longer. Boyd and Isaac will let us know if they found anything."

" For fuck's sake ," Stiles cursed under his breath and continued to pace around running his hand through his now longer hair.

The click of the gate was heard, and the door opened as Boyd and Isaac had walked in from their own search they had done. Scott was first to run over to Isaac's side before anyone else even had the chance to react, but they soon approached them seconds later.

Except for Peter, who sat in his usual place on the steps of the spiral stairs, acting as if he couldn't care less about the current situation but still keeping a watchful eye on everybody.

"Hey, anything?" Scott dared to ask.

From the look on both of their faces, everyone already knew the answer before they even spoke.

"We tried to track her from her scent, but we weren't able to find any leads," Isaac spoke up and Boyd just shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

Stiles immediately then walked over in a threatening, stalking manner, "What the hell do you mean ' you weren't able to? '"

Isaac took a step back away from Stiles, not liking the way Stiles was approaching him one bit. Scott took a step forward blocking Stiles' path before he had the chance to get into the beta's face.

“You’re freaking werewolves! That’s what you do!”

Scott, more than anyone, knows how much Stiles cares about Lydia, the kid has been crazy over her since elementary school, she was all he ever talked about. Even though Lydia made it very clear that she doesn't have those same feelings for him, that won't ever change anything. Now knowing that their rival pack has a hold of her has to be hell for him. Scott will help him in any way he can, even if Lydia or anyone else doesn't know, Scott considers her as part of his own pack. Lydia is one of his friends, probably not the closest, but he could assure that she is definitely a friend of his.

"It's like her scent was blocked, from the moment she walked out from school, her scent just ...vanishes."

Stiles curses under his breath and slammed his fist on the table next to him hard enough to make the table vibrate from the bang, causing everyone in the room to flinch at his sudden reaction. They watched him as he continued his routine of pacing around the room.

Allison sighs out heart-broken, she hates the fact that her best friend is missing and not being able to do anything at the moment. Some part of her knew she was to blame. Allison was suspicious when Lydia had let her know that she was going to hang out with her other friends. Especially at the fact that she wasn't invited, which stung a little at first. Allison thought they were drifting apart when she told Lydia to stay away from Aiden. Ever since then, Lydia had kept her distance, saying she doesn't need anybody to watch over her as if she was some poor, defenseless child.

Even though the thought of following her had crossed Allison's mind, but she didn't want to make things worse between them and decided to give her space, she really regrets her decision now. It wasn't until Scott had called her saying that the Alphas had Lydia, she instantly dropped everything and made her way to Derek's loft where everyone had met up.

"I knew I should have followed her," she muttered under her breath but said it loud and clear enough to be heard by everybody in the room. Scott wrapped an arm around her shoulder giving her the comfort and she leaned into the embrace for a moment.

"Then why didn't you?" a surprising remark from Stiles. Everyone looked at him, not expecting Stiles to talk back to anyone in such a tone, (except Derek, basically any and all Hale family members who just keep popping up like daisies) but never to Allison.

"What?" Allison asked, dumbfounded.

"Just like you said right? Maybe if you had followed Lydia, maybe if you could have talked her out of seeing that dick, none of this would've happened."

Allison looked at him with a shocked expression but felt something burning inside her causing anger to overwhelm her. "Are you trying to say this is my fault?"

"You said so yourself Allison, so I guess, yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying."

Scott then put himself in between them, hating the fact that Stiles was treating Allison like some kind of criminal. "Whoa, dude. Watch the way you speak to her." He placed a hand on his chest once again, pushing him away. "It's nobody's fault."

"Get your hands off me," he growled, swiping away Scott's hand.

Scott tried to gently push Stiles to get him to back off, but Stiles pushed him and unexpectedly pinned Scott against the wall with his arm right against his neck.

Scott looked bewildered at Stiles and his sudden loss of air. Stiles was breathing heavily and looked like he was on the verge of tears. He had a dark look in his eye, he looked as if he were possessed. It was almost as if Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore.

Stiles snapped out of whatever trance he was in and realized how he was holding Scott and released his hold against him immediately. Everyone in the room was dead silent, the only thing heard was Stiles heavy breathing. He looked around the room and everyone was staring at him in shock. They looked scared.

He was scared too, he felt himself shaking and it was getting difficult to breathe normally.

“I- I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he managed to stutter out. He couldn’t be here any longer, everyone was staring at him as if he were a ticking time bomb. He ran out of the building not bothering to see anyone following.

Scott was about to go after his best friend but felt a hand stop him from going any further.

“Don’t,” Derek said, “Let him clear his head.”

Scott wanted to argue that he needed to be with his best friend. In the middle of their commotion, no one realizes that someone in the group has left unnoticed.

____________________________________________________________

Stiles felt himself having a panic attack. His chest felt like it was constricting his lungs and his heart was beating hard against his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He had to calm himself somehow and made his way out of the loft and walked towards his jeep. He knocked against the car and leaned himself down to ground trying to even out his breathing as best as he could. With everything that happened, it just made it difficult to concentrate but he tried to push through and began to count in his head.

1.. inhale

2.. exhale

3.. inhale

4.. exhale

He began to count even slower to time his breathing and it seemed that his body was starting to calm itself

8…. inhale

9…. exhale

10… breathe

“Such a shame you even have to deal with that.”

Stiles looked up and saw Peter standing before him with that punchable, snarky look of his. It just reminded him how much he hates this guy.

“What do you want?” He muttered.

“From you? Nothing. It’s more about you want, or in this case need,” Peter replied.

Stiles was really in no mood to deal with Peter right now before he could blow him off

he just continued to ramble.

“I know you wanna help that little girlfriend of yours right now, but honestly in this state of yours, you're useless. Don’t you regret not taking up my offer in the bite?”

Stiles was taken aback when he saw where the conversation was heading. “The bite? The bite that could most likely kill me?”

“It could have, yes. But then again it couldn’t have,” Peter retorted. “I mean think about it, if it didn’t kill you, you could have been a werewolf, and if you were a werewolf now, you could be looking for Lydia yourself. And not here having a breakdown of being pathetic.”

Stiles scoffed, Peter was always annoying and wished this guy stayed in his grave where he belonged. But you know what? Maybe Peter had a point.

What use was he? Here he was having a stupid panic attack because that’s the only thing he was good for, panicking. If he were a werewolf right now, he could have been a useful member of the pack, he wouldn’t have to stay on the sidelines and be out there tracking Lydia’s scent. Being able to rescue her. Be strong and confident like Scott.

“But of course, you’ve made your choice to stay as a pathetic, weak human,” Peter added.

Oh god, if Stiles were a werewolf he could be able to kill Peter himself.

“You know what? Screw you, Peter!” Stiles snapped and picked himself up from the ground to stand face to face to this jerk. “Yes, I am human. But I’m way more useful to this pack than you’ll ever be! What do you do, huh? Besides being the narcissistic asshole?”

Peter was clearly taken aback by Stiles's remark and continued to listen to the insults with a sour face.

“That’s right, nothing! You may think you're hot stuff but think about it. Say when we do find Lydia and we were to have to fight the alphas and you are in trouble, who's going to help you?

Derek? No, because you may be his uncle, but Derek doesn’t even like you and wouldn’t hesitate to leave you to die. And so would anyone else in the pack.

I may be the weakest one in the pack, but at least I have a pack that cares for me and I could count on, and that’s all I want and need to find Lydia.”

Stiles was out of breath by the time he finished his lecture and Peter was certainly stunned and looked pissed. And for a second, his blood ran cold when Peter gave him his murderous look, holy shit . Stiles totally forgot who he was talking to.

He was expecting Peter to rip out his throat then and there, but eventually, Peter chuckled.

“It’s such a shame, you would have been a strong and gifted werewolf, Stiles,” and with that Peter walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Stiles finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and felt his knees go weak under him. He leaned against his jeep staring into space.

Holy shit , Stiles could have sworn he had stared death right in the face.

It took a while to calm himself down again, but it got him to think. Peter, is wrong. Stiles made the right choice in declining the bite, he didn’t need to be a werewolf to be useful. He’s smart, quick to think, even under pressure. That’s all he needed to save Lydia, and right now he needs to come with a plan. Determined, he headed back inside Derek’s loft.

[precuredaily]

Precure Day 127

Episode: Futari wa Precure Splash Star 29 - “Flappi and Choppi are in Dire Straits!” Date watched: 8 June 2019 Original air date: 27 August 2006 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/9LKKaID Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout

“I’ll kill you!” - Optimus Prime, 2014, colorized

I was all ready to write this episode off as more goofy filler. But then, I changed my mind. Why? Let’s set the scene.

Saki and Mai are chilling at the Mishous’ place, finishing up their summer homework. Interestingly, despite Mai being a little more academically inclined than Saki, she also hasn’t made much headway on her homework, because she’s gotten absorbed in drawing all the sights around town over the summer. This results in both of them helping each other when they gain some understanding about a concept the other is struggling with, and it’s lovely.

Unfortunately, the fairies are restless and rambunctious. They keep disrupting the girls by making lots of noise and running around them.

and through them

Saki and Mai try to distract them in various ways: television (where Moop and Foop get entranced by an ad for soap which reminds them of the Fountain of the Sky, more on this later), letting them run around in the next room, letting them run around outside, but invariably, Moop and Foop do something that sets Flappi off as he’s trying to make moves on Choppi, and he starts chasing them around.

Yeah, he’s actually the big troublemaker this go-around, not them. A little surprising, I know. Little dude has murder in his eyes (see top pic) and it takes Saki telling him to chill the fuck out before he calms down temporarily. So the lesson here is that even Moop and Foop can see that his love for Choppi is one-sided. Where does that put him on the maturity scale? Low.

Moving on, down in Dark Fall, Akudaikaan is giving Miss Shitataare crap for being inept, as usual, but she says she has a plan that will work this time, as usual. Once she leaves, Akudaikaan tells Gohyaan to go after her.

Up at Mai’s place, the doorbell rings and they receive an unexpected package from Underwater Delivery Services later (lit. Mizushita something something) which is not at all suspicious. It turns out to be a set of bath soaps, which they don’t really know what to do with, but they smell nice. Flappi continues to flirt with an oblivious Choppi, only to be distracted by that most treacherous of enemies..... bubbles. The younger fairies have gotten into the soap and made soapy water that they’re using to blow bubbles. This sets him off and he gets in a shouting match with them about their intentions, trying to spoil his advances, which results in Saki and Mai having to intervene again, placate all parties, and get an understanding about what’s going on. However, someone interrupts.

raise your hand if you saw that coming

Yes, it turns out the soap was from Miss Shiitake (actually I think they make that joke in a later episode), in some ploy to capture Moop and Foop and learn the location of the Fountain of the Sun. She gloats that she has the upper hand because of the soap, which she makes her Uzainaa out of, but it’s not shown to be especially dangerous without her making it into an actual monster, and she could have used literally anything else aquatic, like the water in the pond that the soap bubbles were in, or the kitchen sink, or the toilet, or the plumbing itself, or [insert long list of water-adjacent objects in a modern household]. What I’m saying is that, as usual, her plan doesn’t make any sense and last episode was an anomaly. In fact I’m going to pause the recap here to analyze her methodology thus far, because there are particular reasons I don’t want to do it at the end.

Miss Shitataare was introduced as a bigger threat than the enemies the Cures had faced thus far (except for Gohyaan and Akudaikaan, of course). She came out swinging, attacking the girls with water sickles at point blank range before they had even transformed, and even when they did transform, she was still able to overpower their Twin Stream Splash and leave them weakened until Moop and Foop gave them the Spiral Rings, powering them up enough to win the fight. She’s seemed to have a grudge against the tiny fairies since then, because in almost every subsequent appearance she’s made it a point to hold them hostage. Her strategy is generally: Put on a disguise, get close to the girls, and then attack. The one time her disguise was useful was the last episode, where she separated the girls. In this episode, she makes a big show of presenting the soap to the girls and acts like it’s a key component to her plan to defeat them, but as far as I can tell it’s just soap. Then there’s the detail that her Uzainaa are generally not particularly more threatening than we saw the prior generals using. The eel was fast and gave the girls the runaround but that’s been about it. Without any particular signs of struggle greater than what they were able to overcome without the power boost, they always summon the Spiral Rings to finish off the monsters. Granted, this is a creative choice driven by the desire to sell toys, and there’s narrative gain by showing how their new friends contribute their power to the cause, but as far as purely needing the power boost, there hasn’t been much need for that. However, that’s an endemic problem to a toy-based franchise and I don’t want to go down that rabbit hole too far.

Back to the matter at hand. This Uzainaa’s special ability is that its bubbles are apparently explosive, and it manages to force Bloom and Egret all the way down the mountain from Mai’s house to the beach. They get tossed around a little but they trick Miss S. into momentarily letting go of Moop and Foop, who break out of their bubble and provide the Spiral Rings so that the Cures can finish off the monster with Spiral Heart Splash. With peace restored, Saki and Mai ask Moop and Foop why they were dead set on playing with the soap bubbles, and they explain that the scent reminds them of their home in the Fountain of the Sky, which everybody present is able to sympathize with. Following this exchange, the screen fades to white and the credits-

JUST KIDDING!

Remember that exchange in Dark Fall earlier? Well, since Miss S. failed, Gohyaan is here to pick up the slack, and he’s no slacker. With three minutes left in the episode, he brutally attacks the detransformed Precure and grabs Flappi and Choppi, taunting them that they’ll have plenty of time to tell him where the Fountain of the Sun is, or if they truly don’t know, divulge whatever they do know, and mocks the girls because they can’t do anything in their current states. Then he descends back into Dark Fall as the two lunge at him, but they are too late and are left grasping at sand. Thus, the episode actually ends with Saki, Mai, Moop, and Foop staring at the ground looking shocked and afraid at what just happened. They can’t transform, they don’t know how to reach Dark Fall, and their fairy friends are in serious danger. How’s that for a cliffhanger?

As I said at the start, I was ready to write this one off as goofy, inconsequential, maybe a little sentimental but not better than the emotional bonding and general fun of the last two episodes. By the end, I had almost forgotten about Gohyaan (probably a side effect of spending ~90 minutes watching a 24 minute episode to get screencaps, ps check the gallery), so when by all accounts it was looking like a textbook happy resolution, the fairies will work out their differences and everybody will get along, I was surprised when Gohyaan showed up and kidnapped Flappi and Choppi. Consider me rightfully shocked. Then I remembered what happens next episode, and realized maybe I should have seen this coming, but I’m glad I didn’t because it allowed me to be surprised. The twist ending doesn’t completely negate the wishy-washy (no pun intended) rest of the episode, but it certainly makes for a powerful subversion of expectations, and I give the show a decent amount of credit for that.

Next time, the moon shines bright on a windy night! Look forward to it!

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 0 Zekkouchou Nari!

Miracle Drop Count: 5

[connywrites]

of flesh and blood 5

start - part [4]

-

Gavin had barely come back from a long day of work, locking the door behind him as he headed towards the couch, and that was when he felt the yank of his hair, pulling him down from his usual height followed by a blistering pain in his nose and upper jaw, suddenly hit with the sensation of the surface of the end table bluntly grazing his face.

“What the fuck—” The familiar silver eyes met his as the RK900 was knelt on the ground, one hand holding him in place by the hair with the other gripping both wrists, now held behind his back; the abrupt and unexpected disposition already multiplied his heartrate into an unsafe range.

“While I know you use crass slang to emphasize and exaggerate your points, after hearing ‘fuck’ well over two thousand five hundred times, I suggest you try a different one. It might have more effect.” Gavin hissed an exhale through his teeth, glaring down the android acting all too calm for what it had done to him moments ago, still holding him with his knees to the ground and his cheek to the polished wood.

“What are you doin’? I mean, great to see you got fixed so fast this time,” he remarked with sarcasm, “but damn. Attacked in my own home? That’s a few law violations,” he said slyly, but the RK900 only laughed a mocking laugh in response, the same kind of chuckle Gavin would emit after he’d heard something particularly disagreeable in lieu of snarky words. The chuckle was new, sharp, sinking its metaphorical teeth in deep as it was clearly aiming to somehow manipulate his emotions. Why, he wasn’t sure – he’d never seen the RK900 quite so sinister before.

“I couldn’t carry out your commands properly last time, but my algorithm has been updated and I think you’ll be impressed. One might say I am barely getting started,” it taunted, and Gavin felt his weight lift off the ground in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was young enough to be picked up by his father. The way he was thrown back to the ground and into the nearest wall was equally familiar. Sparks flew in front of his vision as the impact was tougher than he could have expected in the few seconds he was plunged through the air, and soon enough, his balance was gone and the next thing he knew he was chest-down on the floor with the sharpened curve of an expensive shoe pressing into his spine.

“Well, ow,” he muttered with the usual sarcastic bite, even though he had no idea what was going on. Carry out earlier instructions? What had he told this thing to do, and to him, of all things? All he could remember was that a couple extra doses of the pain medication was missing once he finally roused this morning with some kind of lethargic medication hangover that kept his mind fuzzy until he had a thick Rueben sandwich at lunch to absorb the toxins and caffeine, thoroughly refreshing his body and mind, yet leaving behind the damage that was already done.

“Oh, that hurts?” The sarcasm in RK900’s voice was new, and nigh on palpable with its heavy tone. Gavin fumed, only to be responded to with a crack in his neck that struck with a sharp pain, the rapid contraction to his trachea cutting his breath as only one large, strong hand picked him up off the ground with choking constriction.

“How does it feel now?” Gavin’s eyes filled with tears out of a natural pain response, feeling his Adam’s apple press into the android’s palm while he tried to swallow so as not to choke and continue breathing despite the tickle in his throat.

“Sth-stop,” he murmured, words hoarse from the pressure on his windpipe.

“What’s that?” Its voice was dripping with taunting satire and it wore a wry, nigh evil grin.

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, it struck an old-forgotten fear in him like lightning, digging into the phobia he had over the androids themselves—the fact they were composed of inorganic structures, man-made from the strongest materials was enough on its own to skyrocket his paranoia and spiral it into raw fright as the tables had turned as he felt protective of his own flesh and bones, fragile in comparison to metal and bolts, a situation he never expected to find himself in.

“I can’t hear you.” There was no time to acknowledge the ironic satire before his ears were ringing from the blow of another hit he’d endured, splintering pain stabbing into his flesh as hot glass splattered across his skin. It was blistering, the plethora of slicing stings as small amounts of curved, sharp edges dug into his flesh with a hot sizzle from the bulb while his weight collapsed into the lamp.

“Stop it,” he said again, under his breath and with more gumption than usual despite the weakness tearing at his voice.

Time stood still and his eyes stared into the robotic replication that were its own optical units, while strong, flawless, printless fingers gripped harder around his neck to the point it became difficult to breathe.

If he spoke words out loud, he risked the concept of being taken as an idiot, something he was rapidly aware of when he let his voice catch in his throat. Suddenly in the position of the victim, he couldn’t muster anything witty to say, staring into the newly replaced eyes of the android now in power; metallic silver rings around narrow black pupils, holding information he was unaware of within their blank depths.

“You told me to hurt you.” It intensified its squeeze, satisfied by the feeling of popping cartilage with the pressure on the human’s trachea. Gavin tried to cough, but mostly sucked in an inhale as his breathing turned into wheezing, eyes watering while his hands were free enough to grip at its wrist and dig in his nails, prying to try and scrape at the skin.

Squinting at the android while his eyebrows shifted, they lowered over his eyes, and he shook his head. 900 loosened its grip just enough enable Gavin the ability to speak, however gruff it was from the constriction.

“N-no, I didn’t,” he said before it was too late to remember whether he actually did or not.

“I don’t remember telling you that,” he explained in a quiet, defensive tone, but the fear was still evident within the gleam of his eyes.

“Well, that’s too bad, as it’s been permanently embedded into my instructions. You know, I must say, this whole situation? This little tussle of ours? I find it rather cathartic.” Confused, Gavin looked away in the direction of where his pistol was stored, wishing for nothing more than to have the device in his hands, to feel safe and protected again.

“With all this deviancy going around, my programming was updated so I can simulate emotions in the same way you would feel them – but I can choose which ones to feel, and when. Are you afraid of your lack of control?” Naturally he was, a fact it knew all too well.

“Of course not,” Gavin retaliated defensively, despite the panic still evident in his voice.

“Liar”. It knew what a lie was and how to identify it with the ability to scan the signs and symptoms, but mostly it spat the word with vigor in mockery of when Gavin said something similar just days ago—‘don’t lie to me. I know you’re capable of it.’

Ultimately, Gavin felt wholly defeated, the tension in his grip around the android’s wrist loosening as he started to realize his chances were diminishing and his consciousness started to fade, the bloodflow to his brain beginning to stall from the constriction of his central aortas in his neck; a deliberate act on the RK900’s behalf.

“Are you beginning to feel lightheaded yet?” The watery redness in Gavin’s eyes showed the answer, even if he didn’t speak. With his movements becoming more frantic, the muscles bulged beneath his flesh while he strained to yank robotic hands away, jerking with all his strength and digging his nails as pops of bright white fireworks and stars starting to cross his vision, dimming the corners with tunnel vision.

“Ah. If I’m not careful, you’ll lose too much oxygen. It could do damage to your brain, and I don’t think you need any more of that.” Gavin hissed through his teeth after a deep, wheezing breath, kicking his legs at what was now nothing but darkness as adrenaline made him fight for survival, whatever that seemed to take. Even in the oncoming dizziness and flickering shadows writhing their way into his mind with spindly legs and vibrations behind his throbbing pulse of his heavy, rapid heartbeat, he fought with every burst of energy he had, even when he couldn’t see or breathe. Slipping away from the world around him, the fearful, falling feeling that struck him when he’d just about fall asleep before hypnagogic jerks would snap him right back into consciousness before he’d even reached REM, blank hours lost in his mind between waking and dormancy. With the position he was in and how quickly he was losing touch with reality, he wondered if he’d wake up this time.

[lichlover]

hey if you're interested, could you write some good good soft lupcretia? it's my guilty pleasure ship and lucretia deserves some lup-brand love

lucretia deserves everything but also i will never turn down the chance to write my two best girls. small nsfw warning for post… you know ;)

It’s just creeping past midnight when Lucretia can breathe normally again.

Of course, at this point, the IPRE has forgone all notions of a Circadian rhythm. They operate on their own time, divided between meals and research and all the entertainment they can get their hands on. As for the latter, Lucretia’s never felt particularly inclined. She has a job that never rests, particularly because the rest of her party seems intent on getting into the most ridiculous possible situations no matter the world. She’s never short on things to write. Her journals are covered in meticulous records of rescue missions, biological discoveries, the occasional fashion foray gone horribly wrong. The universe demands every iota of Lucretia’s attention, and for the most part, she provides it; faithfully documents every moment of their journey.

This moment, she thinks, is one she’ll keep to herself. The journals don’t need to know about the slow return of oxygen to her lungs, or her mess of thoroughly disheveled curls, or how she’s still waiting for sensation to return to her legs. She won’t write about the moonlight that fades through the window behind them, soaking a layer of tangled sheets and illuminating the goosebumps that prickle across Lucretia’s skin. There will be no mention in the IPRE’s official record of tonight.

There will be no mention of Lup.

Lup, who flops backward next to Lucretia and grins into the heated air. Her hair is just as rumpled as Lucretia’s, but on her it looks natural, sticking up in every direction with careless ease. The tiny hairs curling on her forehead are damp with sweat. She hasn’t said anything just yet, but Lucretia doesn’t expect her to—after all, she’s not feeling particularly conversational right now.

No; what she’s feeling is a warm, undeniable bliss that spreads from her chest to her toes. Drowsiness tugs at Lucretia’s mind, but she blinks hard and rubs at her eyes, because she’s determined not to drift off. Not now, when she needs to commit every moment of this to memory. Because she isn’t entirely sure what she’s just done—what they’ve just done—but whatever it is,she’s going to remember every second.

While she’s losing herself in trying to concentrate, she doesn’t feel the mattress shift next to her. Lup props herself on an elbow, extends a finger, and twirls it. She moves it closer in a lazy, corkscrew spiral and before Lucretia can react, gently taps it to her nose. “Boop.”

And—well, Lucretia can’t possibly keep up her reverie after something like that. She cracks, and Lup breaks into a wide, smug grin that sheds light into the darkened space. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, babe?”

“Honestly?” says Lucretia, and realizes her voice is still hoarse. It’s a strange thing, to hear herself so openly and quietly vulnerable around another person. “How good that was. How good… how good you were.”

Lup snickers. “That has got to be the gayest thing anyone has ever said to me, and you’ve got some tough competition in that department. Trust me on that one.” She reaches out and traces her fingers over Lucretia’s collarbone, making her shiver. “I dig it, though. I dig you. And—“ Her voice drops to a low murmur as she gets to the top of Lucretia’s sternum. “I’m up for round two whenever you are.”

Lucretia can’t say she’s not tempted. She’s never been in the habit of lying to herself, anyway. But she exhales and shifts, dislodging Lup’s wandering hand. “Maybe we could just… lay here? For a bit? If that’s okay, I mean.”

“Oh. Sure thing, sweet pea.” Without missing a beat, Lup stretches her arms over her head and relaxes onto her pillow. She releases a full, sated sigh as she cranes her neck upwards to catch a glimpse of the stars. “Gotta tell you,” she murmurs. “It’s such a small thing, but I dunno if I’ll ever get over seeing different constellations in the sky. I almost feel bad for Cap’n’port, y’know?”

Lucretia does know. Star charts are basically pointless to make anymore, but more importantly, she’s suddenly and strikingly enraptured by the sincerity in Lup’s voice. She’s gazing out the window with an upside-down view, with the night catching in her eyelashes and reflecting across her irises, and she looks larger than life itself. (And she’d laugh if she saw the way Lucretia is staring at her right now, play it up and pretend to bask in her gaze, but there’s something remarkable about the moment that makes it impossible to look away.)

Of course, right then, Lup glances over and notices Lucretia staring, and she breaks into the most awful, unfair smirk Lucretia’s ever seen. “Just can’t get enough, huh?”

“Sorry, just—just thinking.”

“You know I always pegged you for one of those introspective types? You’ve got a million things to say, and it all just happens right up here.” Lup tucks a curl behind Lucretia’s ear. “You should try sharing ’em out loud sometime, hon. I’m sure you’d blow us all away.”

Lucretia raises an eyebrow. “Or you could just read my journals. You know, several cycles’ worth of experiences and thoughts and whatnot?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want capital-S Serious Scientist Luce, I want spur-of-the-moment, spontaneous Luce.” She has a mischievous glow in her eyes that Lucretia recognizes from years of impulse decisions and blazing through spell slots. “Tell me something right now. Right off the top of your head. Don’t think, just open your mouth and go.”

Right as Lucretia does open her mouth, Lup holds up a finger, and she freezes. “Now, I dunno if you understand. You can’t think. No thinking allowed. Take that filter down, clear your mind, and just go for it. Ready?”

Resolutely, Lucretia nods.

“Okay—go!”

She takes a deep breath. What tumbles from her lips, absent any truly embarrassing quips or misspeakings, is, “You’re amazing.”

Lup snorts and tosses her hair, sending a shimmer of moonlight through each platinum-bright strand. “That’s it? I know, hon. I guess I was hoping for some kinda revelation, but that’s practically common knowl—”

“No,” Lucretia blurts. “I mean it. I… wasn’t sure what to think of you at first, but you’re powerful and intelligent and so kind, and, um,” she says, and wishes fervently she’d allowed herself some time to compose a better answer. This kind of raw sentiment isn’t her thing, and raw sentiment in front of the girl she’s had a crush on for the last several cycles is something different altogether. “You intimidated me, really, and I guess you still do, but I think the world of you, Lup. I’ve never met anyone like you before and I, um… I count myself very lucky that I did.”

She realizes then that she’s never seen Lup speechless. Mid-thought, certainly; like her brother, sometimes she takes a moment to collect herself before she speaks. This isn’t that. Lup is staring at her and Lucretia knows she’s fumbling for a reply.

Her voice is soft and light with sincerity when she says, “Thanks, Lucretia.”

Lucretia stalls, because she can’t quite recall the last time Lup had used her actual name. Screamed in the seconds before a death, perhaps. But she’s tired of the honesty that relies on impending catastrophe and obliteration and hellfire. She could get used to this quiet honesty, she thinks; the kind that manifests itself just minutes after midnight in a moonlit bedroom on a peaceful world. The kind that uses her name in a voice that makes Lucretia’s heart flutter.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and she means it.

Lup’s fingers return to Lucretia’s curls, pulling through them gently and attentively as she stares into space. “Anyway. That means a lot coming from Miss You’ve-probably-read-my-biographies. Miss Lemme-just-forge-this-signature-for-you. Miss Ambidextrous-and-possibly-split-brained. Don’t get me wrong, hon, I love it when people sing my praises—especially you,” she adds, absently snagging a curl, and Lucretia shivers. “But I really hope you’re not trying to sell yourself short here, because you’re something special. What’s your class again? Living grimoire?”

“Classified,” says Lucretia, and lets a smirk slip through her deadpan.

“Was that a fucking pun, Luce? Because if it was, I’m gonna have to get you back for it, and I dunno if you can handle me pinning you to the mattress again.” Lup’s voice drops, low and sweet with suggestion, then laughs as a flush spreads across Lucretia’s face. “Oh, wow, that act lasted all of… two seconds? Couldn’t keep it up, eh?”

Lucretia fixes Lup with the best glare she can muster while lying on her back. “I’ll have you know that there’s more to my personality than introvert journal keeper.”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s see what we’ve got here, again? A ghostwriter, deadpan comic, master forger, kickass magic user…” In one soft, fluid movement, Lup pushes a few curls off Lucretia’s forehead and lands a kiss there. “And the most useless lesbian I’ve ever met. You’re a catch, babe. I’m the lucky one.”

“You’re—you’re just saying that.”

Lup arches an eyebrow. “Then Zone of Truth me, right now. I’m not. Come on, is there anything you haven’t done?”

“Dancing,” says Lucretia.

She watches with a sinking feeling in her chest as Lup’s ears perk up delightedly. “Really. Really?”

“Really. I’m… terrible. The few times I’ve tried have just been genuinely depressing. It’s bad, Lup.”

“Oh my gods.” Lup giggles and presses a hand to her forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s just… the best image. What kinda dancing was it? Ballroom? Interpretive jazz? Please tell me it was interpretive jazz. Or breakdancing. You gotta tell me, ’Creesh.”

Lucretia sighs, even though she can’t keep her lips from twitching. Forget honesty. Honesty causes her nothing but trouble. “I regret telling you this already, you know that? I really, truly regret saying anything about it in the first place.”

But Lup is too busy snickering to pay her any mind. Lucretia relents. “One time it was waltzing, once it was the foxtrot, once was just at a party I got dragged to, if you must know. I just can’t do it. I trip over my own feet, and step on other people’s feet, and I’m just… I’m godsawful at it, and I’ve got no idea why. What about you, can you… can you dance?”

It takes a moment for Lup to blink the tears out of her eyes. To her credit, she does look like she’s fighting valiantly to regain her composure. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

“You—really? Are you any good?”

Lup’s expression drops in mock offense. “Did you really just ask me that?”

“Okay, okay.” Lucretia rolls her eyes and starts again. “How good are you?”

She grins widely. “Real good. Taako ’n I learned a while back, and we’d entertain at the odd tavern for some pretty good money. I can, uh… I can slow dance, quickstep, swing…? It’s been a hot minute, but we both still got it.”

“What did I say?” says Lucretia. “Amazing.”

“Oh, well, I don’t believe you can’t dance. Nobody just can’t dance.” The spark reignites itself in Lup’s eyes, and she sits up straight, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I just had the best idea. Get up.”

Lucretia isn’t entirely sure if she can, but she isn’t about to tell that to Lup. She pushes herself up and shifts towards the edge of the mattress, and the chilled wooden floorboards make her toes curl and sends a shiver rocketing up her spine. Warmth clings to the sheets and every displaced pillow, but she realizes with a start that the night and the room itself are fairly cool.

Then, of course, the chill is replaced with an embarrassed flare of heat as Lup takes her hands and pulls her upright. Lucretia can’t stifle a tiny wobble, and because one of Lup’s many talents is impeccable perception, she notices straightaway. An endeared, teasing smile spreads across her face. “Still a little shaky, huh? I did good.”

“Please,” Lucretia mutters, averting her eyes. “What’s this idea of yours?”

“Okay, so—” With a couple of fluid steps backwards, Lup guides them out onto a clear section of floor. “You said you’ve never been able to dance. I think you’ve just never had the right partner.” She folds a hand in hers and slips the other around Lucretia’s waist, and Lucretia’s eyelashes flutter against the feverish heat of Lup’s skin. “So let me show you. What d’you think?”

Lucretia squirms. “I—”

“Great!” Lup tugs her a little closer, and Lucretia is struck with an intimate familiarity. They’ve just done something similar, she thinks, under a thin layer of sheets and between intermingled gasps. This couldn’t possibly be much different.

So she concedes and Lup leads her in a gentle, easy sway, shifting their weight back and forth but otherwise keeping perfectly still. It feels far too languid to be called a dance; like what they’re doing is something frozen in a honey-trap of time and space. But Lucretia can feel Lup’s breath skirting the top of her ear, and her heartbeat thudding softly against Lucretia’s breastbone, and her anxiety at the prospect starts to melt away. Perhaps this is dancing; perhaps it’s simply existing in the same space. Lucretia thinks the line might not be as clearly defined as she’d thought.

Whatever moment this is, that they’ve captured and kept for their own, it doesn’t dare her to make a fool of herself—it challenges her to forget, if only briefly, about remembering. She won’t have to try to remember this, she realizes. The memory will catch her before she can fall.

“Look at that,” whispers Lup, after a few long minutes of silence. “You’re doing it. Dancing. That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

The drowsiness is returning to smother Lucretia’s brain in a warm, sleepy fog, but she clings to consciousness just enough to mumble against Lup’s shoulder. “Guess it wasn’t.”

“Oh, sweetie, are you falling asleep?” Lup chuckles into Lucretia’s hair, ruffling a few corkscrew strands. “You shoulda told me you were zonked, I wouldn’t’ve dragged you out here with me.”

“Worth it,” says Lucretia.

“You flatter me.” She nudges Lucretia back, pushing her with a soft but firm insistence until they bump up against the bedframe. Despite her best efforts, Lucretia’s knees buckle, and she lets herself fall back onto the mattress. She crawls towards her pillow as Lup collapses into bed beside her. “Oh, boy. I think you had the right idea. I’m more cashed than I thought I was.”

“Sorry,” Lucretia mutters into her pillow. “Tired you out.”

She knows the sound of Lup’s smile; a huff of amusement that breaks through the silence. “Don’t worry about it, hon. Energy well spent.”

Stars flash across Lucretia’s vision, knitting themselves into multicolored galaxies as she slips further into unconsciousness. She thinks Lup says something else, although for the life of her she can’t make it out, and then Lup’s fingers thread themselves through hers and squeeze.

Lucretia falls asleep holding Lup’s hand, and the journals will never know.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

season 4 first watch impressions

under the cut are my thoughts and my new overall series episode ranking (spoilers)

ep1 - uss callister

- by far my favorite of the season

- a perfect blend of comedy and tragedy 

- i would have loved this as a full movie

- honestly nanette is amazing, like she owns her smarts and sexuality and never gives up i love her

- male coder: “it won’t work, i’ve already tried”

nanette: “well i haven’t” HELL YEAH

- i honestly loved all the ‘crew’ characters, even the gym rat boss

- i especially enjoyed the speech from the boss to robert, where he’s like ‘i acknowledge that i was an ass, but dude, YOU PUSHED MY SON OUT AN AIRLOCK’

- also the fuckin casual dialogue between the monster and bad guy and the crew

- OHHH BOY AND THE FACT THAT ROBERT’S GONNA ROT TO DEATH IN HIS APARTMENT BECAUSE HE PUT ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ ON HIS APARTMENT DOOR, HELL YEAH

- ‘oh my fuck’ 

- 10/10, watch it now

ep2 - arkangel

- preface: the kid playing young owen teague and his family were actually really close with my family when he and my little sister were kids. it was goddamn surreal to see that lil guy talking about porn when i remember him being, like, eight. but nice going nick, keep kicking ass lil dude

- okay so this episode was... conflicting 

- the opener made sense, but in some ways i thought it was TOO obvious and indicative of the episode’s message and tone. i can’t help but wonder if it would have been better just starting like five minutes in

- her father looked like counselor healy from orange is the new black, so that was distracting

- okay jesus christ lady, i get that losing your kid is scary, but implanting her with ‘optional’ optic spying and censoring software is such a massive violation of her privacy. like, it’s one thing when she’s tiny, but how the hell are you going to feel okay with yourself as a parent when she’s an adolescent? 

- the blocking especially pissed me off. that’s so fucking dangerous. either this woman is just very stupid, or very desperate

- at least the narrative established that it kind of was the latter. when her father gets sick, the mother has to care both for both her father and her child. that’s a lot. but still not an excuse for such mental violation of a quickly-growing human being

- young edgelord and sara are fucking adorable

- sara’s self-harm and rage issues are not, however,, and i’m glad that her mother took her head out of her ass and ditched the tablet

- is it just me or is fifteen-year-old sara kind of an idiot? like i get it she’s grunge and artsy, and i loved her giving a treat to the dog, but she seems to be almost hanging out with owen teague because he deals, and not despite it. like i get that i’m supposed to buy that their romance has kind of a subtext of him ‘teaching’ her about things, but like the underage sex and coke are kinda yikes. i feel like he definitely should have had more restraint, and although what the mother does is royally fucked, he and sara are also both to blame

- all right, so the smoothie motif. what a great narrative tool. the miscarriage pill was the most clever part of the episode. sara’s reaction was very well-acted, and the standoff between her and her mother was intense as hell

- i liked that sara’s rage issues remained into adolescence. i was glad that the tablet got wreckt, but i can’t help but wonder if it would have been more effective to have her rage-smash it prior to her mother coming come, leaving the pieces for her to find. the actual beating up of the mother with the tablet seemed to literal, too much sinking in the message. there were moments in crocodile and hang the dj that were the same way. 

- the ending, with sara hitchhiking in some stranger’s truck, was very smart. the ambiguity of a young girl, on her own, hopping in some stranger’s vehicle, is powerful without much explanation. any parent would be horrified by this; that’s what i don’t think we actually needed to see the mother screaming sara’s name and bleeding to understand the horror of losing a child to the unknown

- this one definitely gives me the most complicated feelings of the season; on one hand, it had a lot of great devices going for it. on the other hand, it was over-written and at times trying too hard to be ‘black mirror.’ the grey morality and ambiguous ending reminded me of a literary short story, which i love in my TV.

- 7/10, watch it if you liked most black mirror episodes that weren’t san junipero

ep3 - crocodile

- ah yes, the ‘i watch black mirror to be fuckin ashamed of humanity’ episode

- idk man, i liked it. it was bleak, and fucked up, but i’m all about that downward spiral. i liked that the story kind of began in three different places and then tied together. just as i had with ‘hated in the nation,’ i love police procedural stuff

- also damn, it was freaky as hell to see the straight-laced white blonde soccer-mom type being a despicable murdering sociopath!!! like, gotta go kill an entire family of POC, including a goddamn INFANT, and then see my kid’s show, that’s great. i was so happy when she got what she deserved. 

- all right, so i had one MAJOR PROBLEM with this episode: why the fuck did they make the son blind? the guinea pig twist was so GOOD, and mia fuckin killed a BABY, they didn’t need to further modify that!!! this is another example of black mirror doing just a tad more than it needs to make the audience feel horrible. 

- okay black mirror, we get it, that song is your thing, but can you maybe slide it in as a less glaring easter egg? 

- 8/10, but only if you’re into dark shit and bad endings

ep4 - hang the dj

- not nearly gay enough

- seriously, the entire episode i was unable to focus on the main characters because i kept looking around this Tinder-esque 20′s dating paradise and saw ZERO GAY OR LESBIAN COUPLES. i’m so surprised by this, especially after ‘san junipero.’ at first i was like, maybe this is like society’s way of encouraging procreation because of population decline, but that wasn’t the twist at all. no reason for nearly everyone to be hetero

- THAT BEING SAID, i see you. bi amy. even before the girl partner, i was aware that she used ‘they/them’ pronouns when referring to hypothetical partners. i just wish we could have seen more gay couples in the background (for example, at the choosing ceremony thing, it coulda been two dudes of something)

- uh okay, so everyone loved this episode, and it was okay. some of the banter and jokes were funny and relatable, but honestly, this wasn’t *that* good. the plot wasn’t super original (reminded me a lot of ep1 of hulu’s ‘dimension 404′) and the execution was kind of suuuuuuper basic. like, black suited Enforcers with tasers? a massive matrix wall? the whole thing seemed so predictable and just... basic as hell. 

- but shit man, amy was cool. loved that character in a vacuum. 

- honestly if someone could explain the reasons for loving this episode, i’d like to hear them. because i just don’t get it, man. maybe it’s because i’m gay, or young, or single, or unexperienced... but i just wasn’t very impressed

- 6/10, not even fuckin close to ‘san junipero’ lmao 

ep5 - metalhead

- black and white seemed sort of pretentious, not gonna lie. i think i would have preferred the dirty palette of ‘white bear’ post-apocalypse

- i am all for these female protagonists this season. hell yeah

- soo those corpses in the bed were heavy, but i actually kind of wish we got to see more of that? like, the remains of humanity after the dogs attacked? also, more small explanations for the dogs’ attack would have been interesting

- loved the chase and fight scenes. i can see how they’d be boring, but the moments of conflict between man v. machine were fucking awesome

- K N I F E  D O G

- anyone else get serious farenheit 451 vibes?

- the teddy bear thing was dumb. i don’t think we needed to see what was inside the warehouse. yet another time black mirror threw in just a little more than we needed

- okay so belle keeps alluding to the fact that she has safe family members out there somewhere, so am i to believe that there is some place where humans are safe from dogs? if so, why the actual fuck did she leave? i can’t believe it was just because of fuckin teddy bears

- alllllll the david lynch vibes

- 7/10, but you gotta actually pay attention to the visual details to get the best parts

ep6 - black museum

- BOOOOYYYYYYY! this entire episode i waited for the fuckin shoe to drop and then SHE! DID! THAT!

- the amount of callbacks to previous episodes was,, nice,, but also it was kind of annoying??? and unnecessary? 

- the museum owner was reaaaaaalllly annoying, which is think was intentional. what a fuckin sleaze. in comparison, i thought that jon hamm in ‘white christmas’ was still a somewhat charismatic narrator, but this dude was just yikes

- so, the first story was... kind of a lazy reach? idk, it just felt kinda like a parody of black mirror itself. i get the entire ‘mad science’ vibe they were trying to evoke, but as opposed to the next story, this one had very little to say about human nature. black mirror works its best when it tells stories that use technology as a way to analyze humanity; this one really didn’t (we all already know we’ve got weird kinks)

- the second story was better, but, like, SUPER heartbreaking. poor carrie. i don’t think her husband should have done The Thing at all, honestly, I don’t believe that he couldn’t have seen what happened next coming. it’s like the arkangel mom again; either these characters are just SUPER present-oriented, or just fuckin dumb

- the most tragic moment in this season was ‘monkey needs a hug.’ i felt nauseous 

- okay, now for THE TWIST! the accent drop was a great touch, and i loved that she was poisoning him the entire time. also fuck white men and supremacists, and fuck the museum dude for enabling them. 

- the ending was great. i liked that her mom was chillin with her. the building blowing up was very tarantino. loved her a lot

- 8.5/10, boring in the beginning but the end is worth it 

and now.. 

BLACK MIRROR EPISODES RANKED (AS OF SEASON 4)

1. U.S.S. Callister

2. Nosedive

3. Hated in the Nation

4. San Junipero

5. Fifteen Million Merits

6. Be Right Back

7. White Bear

8. White Christmas

9. Black Museum

10. Crocodile

11. Arkangel

12. Metalhead

13. Hang the DJ

14. Playtest

15. The Entire History of You

16. Men Against Fire

17. Shut Up and Dance

18. The National Anthem

19. The Waldo Moment

[deadsy-doodle-blog]

PUNK ROCK RUINED MY LIFE

SECTION ONE

Grim reached the front door of home from his walk from the high school, staying after for detention. He noticed a random unfamiliar car in the driveway, and Sara’s bike was also there. He walked in and noted his little sister doing her homework in front of the tv, she had brought home some of her school lunch and was snacking on it.

“Mom home?” He asked tumbling his backpack off his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Sara said quietly between nibbles and writing.

 “Fuuuuck.” He groaned, slumping his shoulders as he went to his room. The sun was starting to set so he turned on his corner lamp, sat on his bed tuning his guitar in the dim light. Hearing his mother and a mystery guy moaning through the wall, and the headboard grazing against the thin drywall. He banged his fist against the wall a few times and yelled.“Oh my god! Shut the fuck up!” he rolled his eyes as the sounds didn’t stop. “Fuck this.” He said getting up. He grabbed Sara’s arm and dragged her out of the house with him.

“Where are we going?” she asked the sixteen-year-old.

“A friend’s house. This is bull shit. I can’t handle it anymore.” He said tugging her along as he walked quickly. They walked about a block down the road until Grim knocked at his friend Morty’s door and his father let them inside.

“Morty’s in his room.” His father said as Grim brushed passed him in the doorway. Grim took his little sister into the room and slammed the door. Morty was smoking pot out his window, turning his head with a jump.

“Hey.” He said after huffing out. The stale smoke spiraled and he waved it out the window.

“Fucking bitch.” Grim said shaking his head.

“who?”

“My mom, dumbass.” He said directing Sara to sit down on the green plaid chair as he sat on the bed and took Morty’s pipe. He took a few hits and tried to calm down, taking a few moments for it to take to his mind.

“What?” Morty asked, moving his long curly red locks out of his eyes, tucking them into his beanie a little better.

“She’s boning some dude and won’t even take care of my sister. Fucking slut bitch.” He said shaking his head. “Had to get out of there.” He said in a stiffened smoky breath passing the pipe back.

“Hungry?” Morty asked getting off his bed and scooting a shoe box out of the crack between the bed frame and the wall. He gently put his stash in the box and tucked it back into its hiding place.

“Starving.” Sara’s quiet voice said meekly from the corner of the room. Morty took them to the kitchen and pulled out a pizza box from the fridge. “Just gotta heat It up.” He said handing them napkins. Morty’s father came into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge and took a slice as well. he cracked open the beer and asked if everything was alright.

“Just can’t be at home right now.” Grim said sort of brushing him off. Grim gave Sara a slice of pizza and chomped into his own.

“you’re welcome to spend the night.” Morty’s father said walking away slowly. A few hours had passed between the friends talking, Grim tucked his little sister into Morty’s bed the two of them went out with a baseball bat smashing mailboxes, Grim noticed the unfamiliar car was still at his house, he smacked the aluminum bat against the car’s mirror and broke it off. The mirror dangled from the car and the glass glimmered in the moonlight.

 “Fucker.” He said spitting at it. He lifted it up again and smacked the bat into his mother’s windshield. The crunch sent a satisfying chill up his spine as he pulled the bat back again. Morty’s hand grabbed onto it and wouldn’t let it come down for another blow.

“You’re gonna be in deep shit.” Morty said looking around and ready to flee the scene.

“I don’t give a fuck anymore, Morty. I hope she kicks me out, I can’t stand her. She doesn’t care about us, she just worries about getting laid.” He said in a heavy panting, ears pinned back and his eyes were wide, the moonlight gave their green tint an eerie glow. The aluminum bat fell to the ground as Grim slumped, trying to calm himself down.

“you sound irrational Grim.” Morty said frightened a bit.

“Maybe I fucking am! I don’t even know anymore, I feel like I’m losing my mind!” He weakly deflated onto the ground and held onto his knee, resting in the shards of glass at the bumper of the car. He heaved in deeply and felt the blood rush to his head and create a migraine, a mental nose bleed of congested thoughts and emotions.

“you’re going off the deep end…” Morty said helping him up after a few moments. He walked him back to his house and the two smoked again in the backyard, Grim finally soothing himself into a slow swirl as he heaved in with a toke and out with baggage.

It wasn’t until after school the next day that Grim and Sara spoke to their mother. Grim got home an hour late per usual and glared at her as she sat with Sara making up excuses.

“We’re not fucking stupid.” Grim said as he went down the hall to his room. “You probably didn’t even come out to check on her.” he called as she was turning her attention to him.

“Don’t talk to me like that, god damn it Grim!” she screamed. Grim turned in his door way and stared at her for a moment in disgust, his ears perked forward and alert, tranquilly unpleasant.

“Fuck you.” He said calmly then closed his door and locked it. Grim pretty much avoided her the rest of the night.

“You have to come out to eat.” She yelled though the door after trying her best to unlock it and push it open. She banged on the door every hour trying to get him to come out for his round of emotional and physical abuse.

“The hell I do, I’ve gone longer than a day without food before.” Grim yelled from his bed as he was layed back reading the insides of his CD covers.

“You kidnapped my daughter, I can call the police.” She said louder.

“Go for it. Then they can take us away to child protective care.” He shouted fumbling to put the sleeve back inside the current CD case.

“you ungrateful bastard.” She said bitterly letting the words bite through the door.

“Thanks mom.” Grim said rolling his eyes in sarcasm as he tossed the CD case to the floor and started on the next.

“You’re going to school tomorrow, you have to come out for that. Your homework’s out here.” Grim just laughed heartily. The next morning Grim headed out for school and walked with Sara to her grade school. She seemed troubled and uncomfortable.

“why do you and mom hate each other?” she asked.

“Sara, one day you just learn the facts of life, and some people are just not good.” He said stopping in front of her school.

“But you break and steal things.” She said looking up at him as he was lighting up a cigarette and adjusting his backpack on his shoulder.

“It’s for existence, what mom does is self-interested.” He said looking at her dryly with the fresh cigarette taught in his somewhat hairy lip.

“oh.” She said quietly.

“Make sure you eat lunch today. I’ll go by the store on my way home and get some stuff.” He said leaving her, she walked to the school door as the bells rang.

Grim walked the next four blocks to his school. He was fifteen minutes late as usual. He walked into class and sat down in the back corner of the room.

“Nice of you to join us Mr. Grange.” The teacher said as the other students stayed silent, one jock snickered from across the room and Grim glared his green daggers at him. As class went on Grim just put his head down on the desk, slumped forward and smelling the nicotine caked into his jacket sleeves.

A kid next to him whispered “Grim…” he looked up at him with his dark ringed eyes. “Is it true that you carry a knife?” he asked quietly.

“Wanna find out?” Grim asked sarcastically and reaching into his pockets with an edgy jump.

“Just asking…” he said bitterly. “I like knives.”

“Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone.” Grim said with a grimace on his face, not wanting to be this random kid’s friend.

“Boys, is there a problem?” the teacher asked quietly. They shook their heads. As the bell rang the teacher called to Grim. “Grim, your grades are slipping, you’re fighting to keep your head above water here, son.” He said looking up from his papers. Grim gave him an apathetic shrug and let out a light sigh.

“Is everything alright at home?” he asked concerned.

“Why does that matter?” Grim asked defensively with his ears swiveling.

“Just wondering if we need a parent teacher conference.”

“You don’t scare me, and my mother would never come.” He said shaking his head.

“What about your dad?” he asked.

“Never met the guy.” Grim said shrugging and pushing his bottom lip out and his eyebrows up. His piercing on his brow bobbed up with his expression.

“well at least ask your mother if she would come.” The teacher said writing a note.

“Look, dude. The only thing my mom comes to is a guy in bed.” He said trying to just shut him down. He put the note back in his hand and walked away, leaving his teacher speechless. He went to his second period and spent his time leaned against the wall flicking pencil lead at the backs of girl’s heads.

“Seriously, Mrs. Hawk, do something.” One said turning around and glaring at him. Grim was sent to the hall so he started wandering for a while, he walked down and peeked into classrooms, waving at his friends and the members of his shitty punk band.

“Grim.” Mr. Mckentire said noticing him at the drinking fountain. “Do you have a minute?” he asked. Grim looked up a little surprised and took a step back from the drinking fountain, wiping the water off his muzzle

“Don’t take me to the principal about what I said earlier.” He said looking stressed, ears flicking back in discomfort.

“Are you acting out because of problems at home?” his teacher asked with dipped ears and a concerned expression.

“I’m a bastard.” Grim said looking up at him.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself…” he said uncomfortably.

“No, literally, I am a bastard.” He said sucking in his bottom lip and holding his arms out.

“there’s counseling provided…” his teacher said trying to reach out to his struggling student.

“No, no, no no” Grim said wringing his hands. He tremored at the thought of talking to someone who knew and thought he was crazy, being just another statistic in their day and another file in their portfolio. Using artificial happiness and knew he couldn’t trust himself with a prescription like that, besides would it even help? It was too expensive to ever find out.

“I just want to hold on until the end of the day, when I can go into my music appreciation class with my friends and be alright, and then literary analysis after that. Just leave me alone! I’m fine! Just sick of people assuming they understand or anything”

“well, if you need help, you can come to me.” His teacher said backing off, unsure of how to defuse a ticking time bomb.

At the end of the day Grim walked home with a quart of milk and some cereal, as well as a loaf of bread and some peanut butter from a close by grocery store. As he walked through the door he handed the peanut butter and bread to his sister and put the rest away. His mother sat at the table smoking a cigarette waiting for him to come home.

“Still not talking?” his mother asked in her harsh voice as she glared at him moving throughout the house.

“Here’s a question for you… You sat on your ass all day, why the hell couldn’t you go buy some food?” his green eyes locked onto her blue ones from the fridge.

“I couldn’t drive!” She yelled back at him. She put her cigarette out in the ash tray forcibly, smushing the filter into the glass.

“You’re drunk all the time, should be a pro by now!” he said going red in the face with another fit of rage. She stood up at this point, gripping onto the edge of the table in anger.

“Somebody smashed my windshield and my friend’s mirror with a baseball bat, you little prick!” she screamed grabbing him. She slapped him across the face and pushed him to the floor. He looked up at her, feeling the sting and impression from her nails and palm. He calmly got up and headed to his room, ears pinned and his head hanging low. He sucked his lip in trying not to lash out physically toward her. “you’re grounded!” she yelled. “I’m not done beating your ass, you wanna act like that this is what you’re gonna get!”

He ignored her, sat on his bed and hugged his knees to his chest. The throbbing on his face and a hot sting of angry tears burned with the ringing in his ears. He heard her yelling at Sara to go to her room. Grim let go of his knees and cracked his head against the wall, just trying to numb it out. He sprawled back there thinking for a long time, the house still and brooding. Every little memory courses through his head as his eyes searched through what was burned in his mind.

After what felt like forever he sat up and picked up a backpack, he started stuffing clothing into it, his favorite CD’s and his book of songs for the band. He shoved his picks and extra strings in the bag and the money he had saved up from small house shows and venues. He flung it onto his back and strapped his guitar around his back as well. He pulled the door open, the house was dark, everyone locked away. He quietly walked out the front door and trudged down the road.

He stopped by Morty’s house and knocked on his window, Morty jumped up from his bed and turned his bedroom light on. He opened the window and Grim looked at him with stern eyes. “I’m leaving town.” He said in a hushed voice.

“Shit, really? Where?” Morty asked looking around outside.

“I might have a place to stay, I can’t stay there any more man. I’ll still come out for band shit, but I’m done.” He said shaking his friend’s hand. Grim started backing away and made his way down the road a little further. After another fifteen minutes of walking he went down the street to Crue’s house.

Crue was a bundle of weird memories and emotions for Grim, she was an amazing bassist and they had shared a lot of firsts together. He quietly snuck around the side of her house and found her window and just as he had done before knocked lightly and woke her up. She turned a lamp on and was bundled up in her blankets.

“Wow nice pajamas.” Grim smiled as she shivered in the cold night air.

“What do you want? It’s like 1 AM.” She said in a groggy voice.

“I’m leaving.” He said leaning on the window sill. “Don’t worry about the band, but I wont be around school and shit.” He said looking at her brown eyes.

“You’re running away?” Crue asked quietly a little surprised.

“It’s been hard.” Grim said shaking his head and pushing his forelock up with a  stressed hand. Crue looked at him for a moment before leaning out the window and giving him a kiss.

“What was that for?” he asked pulling back confused.

“Luck, I guess.” She said in a smirk.

“I gotta go, see ya, bitch face.” He said walking back out into the night, even more confused than before.

He walked for miles, the air growing cold and his nose starting to run. Cars passed slowly, he felt their stares. He reached the next town deep into the morning and rested at the park. He pulled a bag of weed out of his coat, packed his pipe and lit it. He dragged deeply from the pipe hugging his freezing hands to his chest and his knees over them. After his short hit break he got back up in the freezing night and kept walking, a little calmer. he reached the home of his grandmother around 7 am. He knocked on the door hesitantly and quickly straightened himself out a little when she opened the door.

“I’m sorry, Grandma, but can I stay for a while?” he asked looking like he was about to pass out. She brought him inside and took him to a guest bedroom. He sat on the bed and slumped over in relief and exhaustion.

“What’s going on?” she asked caringly.

“My mom, she’s not taking care of us.” He said rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“she’s out of control again?” she asked looking sad.

“Yeah, I just can’t stand it anymore, she’s been really bad lately.” He said pulling his wet shirt off. His grandma took it from him and held onto it to put in the wash.

“Go take a shower really fast then get some rest.” She said leaving the room gingerly.

The next morning he woke up and started coughing violently. His grandma tapped on the door and came in and felt his forehead. He had slept nearly a whole day and his body was an aching mass of heavy limbs and fur.

“You’ve got a fever.” She said as he wheezed. “come get something to eat and a hot drink.” He rolled out of the bed and went down to the kitchen for a while. Getting some breakfast he sat down in the living room. His grandmother brought him a cup of tea.

“Grandma, what the hell is this?” he asked taking if from her.

“It will help with your cold. Please watch your language.” She said sitting down with her own cup.

“Oh shit, sorry grandma, bad habit.” He said with a smile as he ate his cereal. They conversed in pleasant small talk for a while.

[sambinnie]

How are you? I wish I had something more incisive to greet you with, but the speed with which everything occurs means it would be irrelevant, distasteful or a viral punchline a few hours later. 

I have been to the cinema for the first time in six months, and continued my regular habit exactly where I’d left it by attending a first-thing-in-the-morning screening of Tenet with only one other person in the cinema, sitting miles away and also on their own (the only way to watch a film, I say). Fucking Tenet, though. I mean, I have really missed going to the cinema, partly because I love films and partly because there’s such a small-scale decadence to occasionally going there solo at 10am on a Tuesday morning, and those tiny pleasures (which, of course, are currently no longer tiny) are just the things to keep me going.

But the film. Oh god, the film. I wish… I wish I could collate my thoughts into something which doesn’t just rapidly descend into a frustrated scream. I wish success didn’t mean people couldn’t say no to you. I wish I liked Nolan’s Batman films, for a start, since so many seem to get so much from them (see also: Breaking Bad, Killing Eve and Line of Duty), but I’ve always found them silly, really dumbly written, and badly made — I can’t hear much of the dialogue, and the action sequences are frequently shot with so many cuts and movement that’s it’s impossible to follow, something George Miller could teach him about so beautifully — and they’re so bloody solemn. Gotham is a grim place, but there’s a boring pomposity in fetishing that one-note grimness, and Nolan has it nailed. Having a character genuinely laugh at something doesn’t render your film light-weight; it creates contrast, and human engagement, something these serious (but sci-fi)/serious (but fantasy)/serious (but adult man dresses in a cape) films too often lack, as if a strained, one-note way of speaking will cancel out the frivolous, actually enjoyable genre aspect of the film. 

That lack of humanity is shared by Tenet. After a certain point, I simply don’t care. Is the nuke going to explode before Batman can something something something? *shrugs* Will the Tenet team manage to stop some sort of bad thing happening? Yes? No? Don’t mind, fine either way. Is Tenet nice to look at? Yes, but in a sort of “Christ, are we still holding up billionaire oligarch lifestyles as an aspirational thing at the moment?” very pre-2020 mood. Does it make sense? No, but that alone doesn’t mean it isn’t good — some great films, and some great Nolan films, take several goes to fully enjoy, and some are more enjoyable with every watch. Do I give a single fig about the outcome of the film or for any character after 20 minutes? Nope.

One major issue is that Nolan has made Inception, a masterpiece of film-making meta-commentary. How, once you’ve watched Cobb and Ariadne discuss the leaping-about way of conversations in films/dreams (stopping and starting in completely new locations) can you take the same thing seriously between Neil (Neil. Neil.) and The Protagonist? (I would like to see how many women read this screenplay along the way and just gave a small, inner sigh at the main character being named 'The Protagonist’.) As their boring expositional chats chop between pavement and public transport and plaza, one can’t help remembering how well Nolan previously pointed this out, yet has reverted to that self-conscious device to no benefit at all. It’s like he’s never seen his own films.

Similarly, the much-lauded aeroplane scene is completely without the necessary ingredient of tension because we’ve already been shown what happens, not just in other films but in this one, about fifteen minutes before. It’s like Bill & Ted promising they’d do whatever it was they needed right now, but in the future, and their momentary problem being solved by a loose sense of timey-wimey future self-ness. There’s nothing at stake at the airport, and between us being shown what happens and the scene beginning, nothing has happened for us to even hope the mission isn’t completed. It felt like the criminally underused Himesh Patel was in an instructional video for fuss-free plane-borrowing; compare it to the similar scene in Casino Royale (perhaps the only modern Bond film worth bothering with) and the flatness and mechanical nature of Tenet is all too apparent. The twists of the film, such as they are, are likewise foreseeable for even the least Pauline Kael among us. Who could it be under the mask? WHO COULD IT POSSIBLY BE? 

The Prestige, an earlier film of Nolan’s, is such a contrast to this that I’m stunned I didn’t watch it the moment I came home to clear my brain out. It’s smart, logical, moving, tense, engaging, and if there are plot holes (probably) I didn’t care because a) I really, really cared about what happened to each person, each of whom spoke and behaved like humans, not AI script-bots, and b) it gave this household a v useful shorthand nickname for anyone who wanted something one day but completely inexplicably changed their mind or denied it the next. I recommend it. I do not recommend Tenet. 

Of course, I feel guilty for caring so much about this, and writing about some fucking multi-squillion-dollar film with everything else happening. I am feeling extremely, crushingly ineffectual presently, and have completely come off all social media which from time to time would remind me of the efficacy of protest, of letter-writing and petition-signing and contacting one’s MP, so change feels hopeless and November’s blows seem inevitable. I am trying to knit my mind back together before then with small acts of body-work: cooking and running, drawing and swimming. I worry that I will drown in guilt and fear if I stop for a moment. It is pathetic, but I am still breathing, for now. 

My cynicism-filter is also at its finest mesh, because it cannot cope with the reality of our leaders and the UK’s political discourse: only small-fry stuff gets through, the Sali Hugheses and Jack Monroes, small-time fantasists who manipulate and virtue-signal to build lives of back-slapping consumerist celebration and Twitter Power Leader Boards. I’ve listened again to The Purity Spiral, and also to Desperately Seeking Sympathy, and wondered how many intelligent, kind-hearted people waste time supporting these innocent, victimised mini-Trumps just because they use the right buzzwords and also appear to hate the Tories. 

I wish I could give you some of the lights in my heart that keep me going — the occasional pure moon-eating delight of the people I live with — but here are more feasible treats instead.

Mike Birbiglia’s podcast Working It Out is a treasure, particularly the first episode with Ira Glass, which I think everyone who works in a creative field will listen to and wish they had an Ira Glass to critique their work. I like the idea of documenting works in progress, and not carrying any shame when things don’t work yet.

The Rose Matafeo episode of The Horne Section podcast, because I love her and I love stupid and brilliant songs. Several housemates have discovered Taskmaster too, which makes this a nice bridge.

Sarah & Duck, the BBC programme for tiny children. We never really used kids’ TV when they were little, but this now functions as a salve for when we’ve watched something truly terrifying like Poirot or a Marvel film, and besides the fact that Duck is absolutely fucking hilarious, the animation is staggeringly beautiful. The Islamic geometric patterns of the garden hedge; the soft blue-green hum of the “glow” section of the library, filled with lamps and luminescent books; the motes of dust caught in the sun-rays of Scarf Lady’s window. It’s a balm. 

Thanks to two housemates becoming great cooks over lockdown, I’ve rediscovered lots of my cookbooks and found 2015’s Simply Nigella to be a real corker. The rice with sprouts, chilli and pineapple, the drunken noodles and the Thai noodles with cinnamon and prawn are worth the entry fee alone. It’s quite chicken- and pomegranate seed-heavy, but even if you don’t like those, it’s extremely nice to be eating something that isn’t on our usual five-meal rota (and is also extremely delicious).

I was solo for some of the summer, and managed to watch a few excellent films, including BlacKkKlansman, The Peanut Butter Falcon and Love & Friendship. Cannot recommend these highly enough (*whispers* particularly the latter because it’s as painfully sharp as Austen should be, and we’d made the mistake of watching Emma. and I’m still so cross I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss everything that was wrong with it publicly yet).

I read Esther Williams’ memoir, The Million Dollar Mermaid. Perfect for anyone who loves that period of Hollywood, and full of juicy (as well as some pretty traumatic) episodes from the swimmer and actress’s amazing life. To give you a sense of it, chapter one is called “Esther Williams, Cary Grant, and LSD”. Super good. 

I hope you all keep well, pals x

[slowlyentangled]

Entranced 2017: Seven Deadly Sins

WARNING:  The demonstration I'm about to describe might not be for everyone.  If you're not into horror, feelings of fear, despair, that sort of thing, you might not want to read my recap.  

"Not yet..."

On the first day of Entranced, the first class I went to was Crafting Musical Inductions run by @digitalswitchgamine and @enscenic.  Coming into this convention, I was always curious about how I could work music into my inductions.  I love to sing but was never sure exactly how to make it work.  The class was informative and gave me a lot of ideas to try including using scales to drop people into trance, bring them back up and even use going up and down those scales to fractionate.  They demonstrated how to use musical instruments in similar ways and at one point brought out one tool that in the past has been kryptonite for me, a metronome, though it wasn't kept on long enough for me to fall under.  With some volunteers, they also demonstrated sort of a human xylophone with people in trance singing out notes as they get hit on the head with a soft version of mallets.  It was fun to watch.

I felt like I learned a lot from their class and was really looking forward to their second class/demonstration the next day, Musical Hypnotic Journeys: 7 Deadly Sins.  According to the program description, this was how “different pieces of music can affect your mental state as they lead you on a hypnotic journey through a range of emotions inspired by the classic 7 deadly sins”.  The class came with warnings that it could be emotionally turbulent and had strong D/S themes that put the participants in the submissive role.  The latter had me a bit worried because I wanted to limit the amount of submissive experiences I had at my first con for personal reasons, but the curiosity was too much for me and I had to give this one a try!  It also helped alleviate my concerns that they very thoroughly went over safety concerns and consent about touching beforehand and giving anyone in the room the option to “tap out” if it became too intense.  What did I have to lose?

I will be honest that some of my recollection of what happened during this journey may be a bit off, but I will try to do my best to describe what I experienced, especially what emotions and sensations were going through me at different points of the demonstration.  I tried describing this experience in person to other people but it was hard to organize all of my thoughts about it and I think it came off as pretty confusing.  It took me a good while to process what happened after.  

There were approximately 20 to 25 participants all arranged in a circle with their chairs spaced out well enough that @digitalswitchgamine and @enscenic could weave their ways around us in any way they desired.  In the middle of the room, @tennfan2 was doing tech and acting as an assistant, playing the music from a laptop while keeping an eye on anyone in the room that may have a bad reaction to the experience.  The set up was very well thought out.

The journey started slowly as the music started playing and the voices of the hypnotists began to lull us all down.  The induction included getting the subjects to think back about how they first got into the hypno fetish, remembering some of the first audio files they heard for example.  This helped me remember one of the first audio files I ever heard, being slowly wrapped into a cocoon in a spider’s web.  Being slowly, gradually trapped is one of my favourite submissive fetishes so it was a very pleasant thing to think of as I was led into trance.  I wasn’t aware at that moment how intense that theme would come into play as the journey went on.

The music ranged from being very creepy to downright suspenseful, but it was also perfect for this experience because it varied in volume, drama and intensity, helping create a roller coaster ride effect.  The opening of the soundtrack set the mood up so effectively as I remembered the experience of being entangled in a web by the lovely voice of a hypnotist.  The combination of the music and the voices of the hypnotists walking around the room, sometimes weaving in and out of the chairs, in front of, behind you, all around you was very effective.

The whole idea of the journey, that I can remember clearly at least, is that you are hypnotically compelled to travel to a place where you can find this hypnotist.  As if being reminded of my fetish of being slowly trapped wasn't enough, the fantasy of being hypnotically abducted only intensified the experience!  I was led to get on a train to begin this long journey to where the hypnotist lived.  People got on and off the train as I continued to be so focused on reaching my destination.  I remember being jostled a bit as people got on and off but it didn't stop me from staying true to the goal.  I was completely focused on where I wanted and needed to go.  The vision and even sounds in my head of traveling on a train added to the hypnotic feeling and definitey dropped me deeper into the fantasy.  After getting off the train, I walked to a house, through the door and into a waiting room where I was forced to wait my turn to see the hypnotist.  There were sounds coming from the other room, telling me that the hypnotist was working with someone before it was my turn.  I heared moans, screams, other sounds coming from that room and the suspense of being next in line grew more and more intense.  Waiting eagerly, I think it was very possible that this was where I started hearing the evil phrase, "Not yet".

From this point on, it is impossible to remember the exact sequence of how things happened.  I couldn't tell you the order of when the sensations, both mentally and physically, hit me.  All I can tell you is that every one of them hit me hard and got me more and more lost deeply into the experience.  It got even more wild when I opened my eyes in the middle of the session, still feeling completely immersed in the story but also experiencing it like a hypnotic session with two hypnotists circling around the room at the same time.  I could see all of the other people reacting to what was happening and that energy affected me more.  I could see @tennfan2 in the middle of the room amazed at some of the reactions he saw happening around him.  I could see the carpet which was a spiral like pattern and it seemed to be moving around to me like I was tripping on a drug.  There was just so much happening as I was going through all the emotional turbulence.  It was a thrilling feeling.  There was just so much happening to me with my eyes open that I can't really put it into words where my head was.  It was chaotic.  Made worse...so much worse every time one of the hypnotists said "Not yet..."

I felt so many different things as the journey continued its slow torment toward the climax.

I felt pleasure.  Mind blowing pleasure.  Pleasure at each touch.  Pleasure at hearing the voices.  Pleasure in the anticipation.  I wanted release which would be denied with those evil words..."Not yet..."

I felt physical sensations more intense than I can ever remember.  I shivered uncontrollably at one point.  I definitely squirmed and struggled.  And a slight touch from either of the hypnotists, whether it was a touch of the hair, a massage of the shoulders or lifting up my chin, and my body responded with an instant euphoric pleasure.  And I just wanted more...But again..."Not yet..."

I felt greedy.  Especially for more and more of the pleasure and physical sensation.  I HAD to have it.  I was begging to have more.  I was demanding for more of that pleasure!  Give me more of that pleasure, please!  I just HAVE to have it.  I NEED it. "Not yet..."

I felt resistance.  There was a mantra introduced and for a good deal of the time, I found myself fighting not to repeat it.  Can't let this happen!  There was a thrilling fight to try and keep some semblance of control.  I may have ended up repeating it quietly though at some point late in the session when things got very intense.  And I have no doubt it added to the pleasure.  Again..."Not yet..."

I felt intense fear.  I was trapped.  I felt like I couldn't escape.  There were moments of thinking, oh my god, what is going to happen to me, in this room with this hypnotist I mindlessly seeked out?  I've got to get out of this!  Why am I here?  I was about to cry at one point.

I felt anger.  When the music got more loud, I was furious.  Angrily thinking, "you can't do this to me!"  This was when my eyes were open and I recall looking at @tennfan2 in the middle of the room thinking "aren't you going to fucking do something about this?"  He just kept looking on amused by the intensity of everyone's reactions.

I felt helpless.  When I was feeling anger, I was in my chair and wasn't able to do anything about it.  I wanted to yell but couldn't find my voice.  When I was resisting, it felt like it was just a matter of time until I lost.  When I was greedy, I couldn't get what I wanted no matter how much I wanted it.  There was no escape in so many ways.

I felt lost.  At one point during a slower part of the music.  I remember being very still, pretty much paralyzed.  This was after a period of intense pleasure and I think I went through a phase where I just felt nothing.  Just mindless and sitting there.  It is hard to recall much of this phase of the journey.

I felt anticipation.  When my eyes were closed, I could hear both of their voices and when they were getting close, knowing that they'd come by and touch my hair or my shoulders, it was unbearably frustrating and suspenseful.  My body was leaning eagerly toward the voices whenever they got closer and when they started to move away, my body would lean toward them hoping they'd stay and tease more.  Please tease more!  When my eyes were open and I could actually see them coming near, it was also very intense.  I looked at them and desperately begged them for more and for release.  Also added to the anticipation again, the torment..."Not yet".  "Just not yet."

I felt submission.  I was begging.  I'm pretty sure I said the word please so much that I was wearing it out.  Especially whenever they got close, touched me, circled around me, whispered to me.  My hands are shivering typing this part out...I wanted to give in completely...but "Not yet."  "Just not yet."

People around me were on their knees.  I didn't fall to my knees but there damn sure was a strong compulsion to.  After hearing that teasing phrase..."Not yet" more times than was bearable, the session ended with an orgasm command.  One of the hypnotists would go around to each participant, put a hand on their shoulder and say "CUM".  I can't totally remember who it was, but when I was given the command, she teased whispering it into my ear before walking off to the next person cruelly leaving me with a feeling of ultimate desperation before coming back and giving me the command.  Whoever did that to me, all I can say is that I love you and hate you at the same time.  The amazing part about it was I couldn't decide if I was happy that I was given the command or if I actually wanted to be left to suffer for longer.  Yikes.

I had a mental orgasm that I didn't realize was possible.  Especially considering I was in a room full of people.  Of course, then there was a long, dramatic pause as that orgasm was fading before THE ENTIRE ROOM WAS GIVEN THE COMMAND TO HAVE ANOTHER ONE.  And yeah...the second one was even better!  

This experience can be best described as an interactive horror/suspense movie.  The amazing thing about it is that I wouldn't be surprised if other participants had completely different reactions to it that I had.  I'm sure it is a different thing to each person which is absolute genius!  To me, this was hypnosis as performance art.  This was hypnosis as theatre.  It was amazing.  I still shiver a bit thinking about it.

I have a long history with submission and this easily is one of my favourite submissive experiences, if not my favourite ever.  Thank you to @enscenic, @digitalswitchgamine and @tennfan2 for such an amazing experience!

[cooperjones2020]

Second City, chp. 2

Betty is a basic bitch and I’m not sorry. 

This fic is quickly spiralling into a love letter to my favorite city. I’m not sorry about that either.

Also, let’s pretend Jughead and Jellybean are slightly more than six years apart, like eight, or even ten. That would make my underachieving ass feel better.

(ao3-->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/25619850)

(part one)

In which Betty Cooper is a stereotypical millennial who can’t make a phone call

It has been three weeks since Jughead drove her home, stroked her arm, and called her Betts.

She is on her third re-read of The Final Fissure. Her airport copy is now nearly as worn and marked as her hardcover from the first print run.

She could never read it through just once. Each time she picked it up, she went through at least three re-reads. Pencil sketched out her initial thoughts. Blue pen compared Betty’s memories, her knowledge of the case notes, to Jughead’s narration. Green pen underlined the phrases and passages that made her want to weep and shake Jughead. To ask him how he strung together phrases that swept through her like fire, that absolved like the sea. Green pen underlined the places that laid bare the relationship between the man who’d written the words and the boy who’d lived them. The green pen underlined the places where he’d laid her bare.

She is reading on her lunch break, green pen tucked behind her ear, when Cynthia walks in.

“Aren’t you kind of behind the times? That came out over two years ago.”

“Oh I’ve read it before.” She sets the book down and moves the pen to the spine to mark her place. Cynthia sees her annotations. “Jeez, you in a book club or something?”

“What? Oh no, I just went to high school with him.”

“Him. You went to high school with FP Jones III.” She picks up the book and holds the back cover, with Jughead’s headshot and author blurb, up next to her face. Her eyes slide to the picture on Betty’s desk of her and Archie with their parents at their high school graduation. “What is in the water in your town?”

It’s a joke people have made about Sweetwater River before. For years in fact. But, since Betty was in high school, those jokes have centered on murder and corruption and cover ups. They have come perilously close to touching her family.

Cynthia does not know about that. Or, if her background checks have turned up anything tangential to Jason Blossom’s death more than ten years ago, she has been kind enough not to mention it. So Betty just shrugs and gives her a smile that turns down at the corners.

“And how are you settling in?”

“Good, I think! I’m putting the finishing touches on the profile of the independent bookstores in different parts of the city.”

“Great, you can send it to me to look over when you’re done. But I meant how are you settling in in general? Are you getting around okay? Do you need suggestions? A brunch date? A social life?”

Betty swallows the grin she can feel pulling on her face. She loves Cynthia—had missed her when she left New York a year ago—loved that she’d personally reached out to Betty and wooed her to the Tribune right when she was ready for it. But sometimes the woman acted like an overbearing aunt.

“The answer is, still, good. The rest of my boxes finally arrived and I got a Divvy Bike subscription for the summer. And you’re not the only person I know here, Cynth. I had dinner with my ex’s mom a few weeks ago.”

“Well, I’m glad for that, but I don’t think it counts.”

“Hey, it so does! And we have plans to go to a farmer’s market and her boyfriend is getting us tickets for a Cubs game. And I ran into Jughead — FP — while I was there.”

“Again, all good things, but that sounds more like her social life and — Jughead? FP Jones goes by Jughead?”

“It’s a childhood nickname thing.”

“Wait, Betty—you know FP Jones. Like, nickname-level know him.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“You need to interview him!”

“What? Why?” Her heart kickstarts into a merengue.

“Well for one, he has a new book coming out soon so someone from the paper needs to interview him. For two, I hired you specifically for Printers Row.”

Cynthia gives her an appraising look, then continues: “Look, I know this job is downsizing for you. I know it’s less money and I know New York is the center of the writing world. It’s not investigative journalism. You’ll probably have to write more puff pieces than longform for a while. I practically had to promise you my left kidney to get you out here. But I meant it when I said I thought this move would be good for you, that an Arts beat would be good or you. You write better interviews than anyone I know. FP Jones is a rising star. It would be a great opportunity. For both of you.”

“Okay, we’ll blow past the drama queen antics for now. No bodily organs were exchanged in the making of this job contract. Jughead and I…aren’t on the best of terms. We haven’t even talked since high school. We just both happen to come from the same small town is all. We know the same people.”

“Well that could be better! You know—you’ll be able to be more objective about him while breathing life into the background, really telling the story. You can give us another lens on what makes Riverdale tick — that whole seedy underbelly of small town America schtick he’s working with.”

Betty capitulates with a groan. She could see she wouldn’t get out of this without a fight she isn’t ready have while this new on the job.

“Look, I don’t have a way to contact him. But I’ll try. I can call Archie’s mom.”

“Perfect.” Cynthia folds her hands over her crossed leg and cocks her head at Betty.

“You want me to try now?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, fine,” she grumbles. She prays Mary is in court.

Her prayers are not answered.

“Hey Mar! No, yeah I’m good…You?…No sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to ask if you had Jughead’s email address. I had a—a work question.” Her eyes bulge when Mary offers her his number instead, and she quickly looks down to the hand picking at her skirt hem. Cynthia knows her tells. “No, no, his email’s good for now. Thanks. Talk to you soon. Love you too. Bye.”

When Cynthia waltzes out ten minutes later, Betty’s inbox already contains an email from Mary with Jughead’s contact info, so she leaves with a Cheshire Cat grin on her perfectly made-up face.

Betty sighs. She really doesn’t want to do this. It feels like taking advantage of an old relationship. An old friendship. She doesn’t want to make Jughead uncomfortable. But she also doesn’t want to make herself uncomfortable.

She looks at the book on her desk, moving her thumb to trace the curve of his mouth, the slope of his jaw.

It takes her four hours to write the email. Not that she just sits there and stares at the computer screen for four hours. She’s still Betty Cooper. She sends other emails, sets up meetings, finishes proofreading her article. She takes a power walk around the block with the running shoes she keeps stashed in her purse. She does a ruthless purge until she hits inbox zero. She multitasks.

But always in the back of her mind: Dear Jughead? Dear Jug? Dear J?…Dear Jones?…Would ‘Hi’ be better than ‘Dear’? Ugh I hate myself.

Finally, at quarter to five, she shuts her eyes and hits send, then immediately begins packing up for the day.

When she goes to log off her computer, he’s already responded. Fuck.

“Hi Betty,

Of course we can set up an interview. Unfortunately all that stuff has to go through my agent and I’m sitting at a gate at O’Hare at the moment on my way back to Riverdale. If you don’t mind waiting, we can set something up next week. But if you’re up for it, I have a Skype call with him on Thursday and we’re due to talk about my promotional schedule anyway.

Let me know whatever works.

Best,

J.”

He certainly didn’t spend hours stewing and overthinking every damn syllable.

She agrees to set up the call for Thursday afternoon. Cynthia is so pleased with her she gives her permission to work from home for the day.

In Betty’s lexicon, ‘work from home’ means go on a really long run to burn off excess adrenaline and come home with a sugar coma-inducing drink from Starbucks.

So, she stands on the edge of Promontory Point, still shivering a little in her gym shorts in the early morning breeze off the lake. She forces herself through some Ujjayi breaths. One of the biggest differences she’s noticed thus far from New York is the sheer variety of scents in the air. No one leaves their trash on the curb here. There’s a chocolate factory downtown and its aromas waft over the city with the afternoon heat. In the mornings, the lake exhales a melange of algae and minerals as it laps against the rocks.

Today is the first time she’s felt panicky since moving to Chicago. Moving debacles aside, the whole experience had been pretty damn empowering. She found a sublet for her old apartment and a gorgeous new one. She hired a moving van. She made the calls to end and start her utilities. She told Alice Cooper where to stuff it when she tried to make Betty feel guilty. And she ended a relationship that wasn’t making her happy anymore, appearances her damned.

She takes a picture of the skyline across the lake and instragrams it with the skyscraper emoji and the caption “Sweet Home #Chicago.” Then, she tightens her laces and takes back off.

Sometimes she worries that by moving here she’s settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she’d promised herself — but then she remembers the other things her younger self used to want and shakes those anxieties off. Maybe people don’t decide whether their lives will be large or small. Maybe life decides for them. Maybe the correlation between size and value is smaller than she’s been led to believe.

And that is okay. She is learning that that is okay.

A few hours later, she sits on the floor in front of the coffee table, her laptop propped on a stack of books, and waits for Jughead’s call. This she can handle. This is business. There will be a chaperone, for god’s sake. She’s purposely made sure she’s in the latter part of their agenda, so there’s no chance Jughead can call her before adding his agent to the call.

So she might be a little bit of a coward. She’s okay with that too.

She almost misses the call thanks to the inanity of her inner monologue. When she answers, she sees a split screen of Jughead and an iron-haired man with wire frame glasses, and hears Janis Joplin’s cover of “To Love Somebody” pulsing in the background.

“Hey Betty — this is David. David—Betty Cooper, Chicago Tribune. She…ugh, give me a second. Those speakers carry farther than I thought.”

He disappears from the frame and the music grows softer, though it doesn’t disappear.

When he returns, they talk through some of the preliminaries — she gives them an idea of some of the questions she’s brainstormed over the past few days, of the pitch she and Cynthia have crafted. “We’re thinking a two-parter — the interview, and then I’ll review the ARC, and color it all with my own background in Riverdale. You know, add some human interest.”

Jughead opens his mouth to speak, but David jumps in before he can.

“That sounds perfect, Betty. In fact, Jughead mentioned you gave him his first writing job in high school — that the character of Betsy Coleman might in part have been inspired by you.” Jughead is clenching his jaw, looking as uncomfortable as Betty feels, so she averts her eyes.

“We’re thinking we’ll run extracts of the interview on J’s blog and the publisher’s website — maybe take out an ad in the Times when the publication date draws closer. We’d love to get some official photos.”

“No.”  She looks up, startled at the vehemence in his voice. He runs a hand through his un-beanie-ed hair. A move that apparently still signals his exasperation. “Jesus, Dave. She just moved here. Give her a chance to build her own life before we start plastering her face all over buses.”

David’s face tells her they’ve already discussed the photos. That he is well-aware of Jughead’s opinion on the matter and is attempting to go over his head. She fights — and fails at — suppressing her urge to help, to fix, to placate.

“Maybe we can revisit that idea if the interview is well-received.”

“As you say. Well, I think that’s all on my end then. Betty, make sure your office contacts mine with the small print stuff. I’ll leave you two to set up the details. J, call me when you’ve looked over the new copy for the book jacket.”

“It’s not a surprise, Jughead,” she says softly when David has left the call. “I have read the book.”

“I know—I know. And I didn’t try very hard to mask the details. But you haven’t read the second one yet.”

“Well, I will soon.” She shoots for light, casual. She probably misses, if Jughead’s face is anything to go by. He’s still grinding his teeth.

The music has been getting steadily louder. “Here, I’m gonna take you with me and go outside. Jelly’s graduation is tomorrow and she’s started celebrating early.”

Of course. The music. Jellybean would be 18 now. When he settles the iPad on what she assumes is a patio table, she realizes that, though he’s in Riverdale, she actually has no idea where he is. It seems like his patio overlooks the woods.

He still knows how to read her face. “It’s—uh—a little house off Pine.  For Dad and JB. The down payment seemed like a good use of my first advance.”

She feels her expression soften. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would do.

He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lights one up. “Look — I’ll be back on Monday night but I have some things to take care of. Would Wednesday be okay for you? Say around 8?”

“Yeah, that’ll be great.”

“Thanks. I’ll think of a good place and get in touch.” Then he looks up at something beyond the screen. “Jesus Christ. Her friends have arrived. They’re heading for the fire pit.

“I’ll talk to you soon Betty.” He’s gone before she can say goodbye. She makes a half-hearted attempt to wipe the sappy grin from her face before she calls Cynthia.

[keziacole]

tagged by @bumbleblossoms​ - thank you! 

Tagged Rules: Answer these 92 statements and tag 20 people.

THE LAST:

1. Drink: Coffeeeeeee

2. Phone call: My partner, just as they left the dentist. :( 3. Text message: Motherbot 2.0 4. Song you listened to: Been Caught Stealing – Jane’s Addiction 5. Time you cried: Uh… some point in the last couple months, I guess? Not sure when, but it was at something related to dogs. Honestly, I did most of my crying last year, during The Year From Hell, and I’m still a bit dried out.

6-92 under the cut. :)

HAVE YOU:

6. Dated someone twice: As in getting back together again? Nooooo. 7. Kissed someone and regretted it: …yup. Often. Sometimes not until a long while later, though!   8. Been cheated on: Not to my knowledge. 9. Lost someone special: Yep. 10. Been depressed:  Eh, I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, so no, I don’t think so. Situationally really fucked off with things? Yes. 11. Gotten drunk and thrown up: Once. Story time, everyone! 

So, I generally have a really good alcohol tolerance and a cast iron stomach (not necessarily for good reasons, but hey), but I did once go to a party that ended very badly. I was about 17, had recently been diagnosed with CFS, and was on a heavy painkiller regimen. I drank when I shouldn’t really have done so, because bullshit and All the Emotional Drama, BUT… I did not know that my friend’s asshole brother had spiked my drink. (He was a peach. Gave his 14 year old brother acid once just to point and laugh at the result. Fuckin’ hated that guy.)

At some point in the evening – somewhere after the sham marriages, interpretative dance, and someone putting someone else through a table, because teen parties – I realised I was wayyy more wasted than I should have been, despite the painkillers, and I ended up spending all night hallucinating and throwing up, plus feeling horrific for about three days afterwards. 

Moral of the story: if you spike people’s drinks, you are a gigantic bag of toe lint and should suffer mosquito bites on your asshole for a thousand years. The end.

LIST 3 FAVORITE COLORS: 12. Purple 13. Red 14. Blue

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU:

15. Made new friends: Not yet. Befriend me, tumblr, you’re my only hope.  16. Fallen out of love: No, though I have watched my relationship with at least one family member crumble into dust. Does that count?  17. Laughed until you cried: At least four times a week. Which is one big reason why I’m marrying that motherfucker.  18. Found out someone was talking about you: Yes. See 16. 19. Met someone who changed you: Not yet.  20. Found out who your friends are: Yes, sadly. It sucks when you realise how effectively someone has manipulated the people around you.  21. Kissed someone on your Facebook list: Nah, I don’t really do the FB thing. I should, I guess?

GENERAL:

22. How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: See above. I kind of have a profile, but I only use it to message people I’m related to who are freaking obsessed with Facebook and won’t communicate any other way. Ugh. So… most of them? I guess?   23. Do you have any pets: One dog – Hector, a grumpy and elderly terrier - down from two resident mutts and a boatload of fosters. Older dog died last year, and I’m not in a position to foster right now, which sucks, because I miss having a house full of beasties, not to mention making a difference. 24. Do you want to change your name: Already have done/am doing! I have no real interest in keeping up with more than 80% of the people I’m related to, and I never liked my birth name, plus this is easier to spell and dictate to people, and isn’t known by the abusive assholes in my life. So, yay! 25. What did you do for your last birthday: Ordered pizza and watched favourite movies with my partner. We did The Blues Brothers and shit-talked the progression of police militarisation in the US over the past 30 years, and it was incredibly fun, despite the fact we’re 3000 miles apart right now. Also, they remembered my birthday, which is more than can be said for over two-thirds of the people I’m related to.  26. What time did you wake up: 9am, but in my defence I was up until 3 last night. 

27. What were you doing at midnight last night: Talking shit with my partner, knitting an afghan, and watching foster kitten cams and reviews of awful movies together, because these are good ways to help someone who has a dental appointment in the morning try to stay calm. 28. Name something you can’t wait for: Getting my current backlog of work finished. Sooo clooose…. Promised myself a movie and gaming binge when I’m done. 29. When was the last time you saw your mom: Last week. 30. What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: Either having enough money to fix all my problems (yes, in this case, money most certainly can do that), or just being on the same continent as my partner, so we didn’t have this immigration thing to worry about. Not having a debilitating illness that fucks everything up would be pretty awesome, too.  31. What are you listening right now: Freddie King 32. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: Yep, many Toms. All the Toms. Well, like, five plus. 33. Something that is getting on your nerves: Not knowing whether or not the electrician is going to show up tomorrow, which will mean I need to move the paintings and quilt top I currently have all over the sitting room floor. I’m not done piecing that thing yet. Grr. 34. Most visited website: Lots. Mostly Google, Politico, Reuters etc., but I’m living on eBay right now because I’m trying to sell off a bunch of DVDs, books, and vintage glassware. …Does anyone want to buy some vintage/antique glassware? 35. Mole/s: Yep. I had one removed from my back once. Turned out to be benign (phew!) but I got an interesting scar out of it. 36. Mark/s: I still have a faint surgery scar on my elbow, but it doesn’t look as Frankenstein-y now. Most of my scars have faded, but I still have some weird idiosyncrasies from things that have been broken or busted up. 37. Childhood dream: Writing was always my main thing, but also acting/directing. Illness took that away. Other than that, I always wanted to live somewhere rural with lots of animals, and be happy.  39. Long or short hair: Long. Lots. It’s huge. Send help. I like both on other people.  40. Do you have a crush on someone: Not right now. Give me ten minutes and a new Fet profile to stalk and I’ll get back to you... 41. What do you like about yourself: I’m a creative dynamo and I don’t stop until I fall down. I’m also proud of the fact that I’m a pretty compassionate and patient person, and I like the fact I’m slow to really anger. Someone told me recently I’m a very stabilising influence, and that was nice to hear. I feel like life can use more of that.  42. Piercings: Ears (two left, three right), nose (left). More on the way, maybe, when I can justify it.  43. Blood type: ???? I should check. I know the NHS won’t let me donate blood because of my medical condition, which blows.  44. Nickname: Zia. Some people call me Kez. One person is allowed to call me Admiral Fuckface McAsshole III.  45. Relationship status: Open relationship with my primary partner, technically speaking. Poly is good, but my planner is too cluttered for anarchy.  46. Zodiac: Aries w/ Aquarius moon, Virgo ascendant. I also have Mars and Venus in Taurus, so mooooo. And yes, I did used to do natal charts for beer money. I read palms, too. I’d still do it if asked nicely.  47. Pronouns: They/She. I don’t mind feminine pronouns, because I’m incredibly cis-passing and most people will assume “she”, plus I can live with being labelled female if it’s a binary choice, but I see myself more as a person than a gender, so I love that neutral pronouns are being used so much more now.

FWIW, I considered whether or not I was trans for a hot minute when I was a younger teen, because I used to love passing as a boy when I was a kid (until puberty at nine. Boo.), but for me it was the difference in how I was treated when I passed as male that mattered. It was the difference between “Oh, isn’t he confident and intelligent?” and “Hello, sweetie, don’t you look pretty today?” that affected me, not a real sense of dysphoria, so I decided the problem wasn’t really in how I presented, but in society itself. I have yet to really find a satisfying way of rectifying that, but I think we’re all making progress as a society. It’s very slow progress, sadly.   

48. Favorite TV Show: I don’t watch that many series, but Star Trek (especially TOS and DS9), X-Files (S1/S2), Game of Thrones, old mystery adaptations (all the Agatha Christie ever), Stranger Things, Better Call Saul, Breaking Bad… can’t think of anything else right now, but there are some. 49. Tattoos: One black and grey dotwork spiral goddess on my arm, next one coming soon (watch this space, now I’ve found an artist!) 50. Right or left hand: Ambidextrous. Yes, I can write with both hands. Sometimes, I switch in the middle of the sentence. No, it doesn’t look the same. I can also operate light switches with my toes from a standing position.  51. Surgery: I fucked up my ulnar nerve a couple of years ago by blacking out and falling on some stairs. It was melodramatic, and I lost the use of my left hand. Had surgery to correct it. I was awake but a bit sedated, and spent most of the time talking to the cute anaesthetist about chastity cages. Because... sedated? Yes. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Sadly, he did not call, though I’m pretty sure he did a lot of googling when he got home that night.  52. Hair dyed in different color: Always, since I discovered Olaplex, which means I can actually bleach my hair without it completely frying. Most recently, I’ve had a mermaid fantasy in turquoise, green, and purple, but it’s faded a lot. Not sure what I’ll do next. Maybe orange, or neon yellow again. 53. Sport: I can’t do much without turning blue and blacking out, but I’ve always enjoyed tennis, badminton, swimming, and equestrian stuff. Is hiking a sport? Hiking’s fun.  54. Do you use sarcasm a lot: Um... 

55. Vacation: Last one was to see my partner; next one will be too. So, the woods of NEPA. Hiking out with some granola and my favourite human, and spending a few days playing with shelter pitbulls. <3 Otherwise, I’ve never really been on holiday. I went on a school trip to Germany once where I nearly got arrested and, when I was seven, I went to Malta and there was a hurricane. I remember wedging wet towels into the window frames and hoping we didn’t die, because we were on the twelfth floor and there was nowhere else to go. 

I did go to Norfolk with my mother for four days after her breast cancer diagnosis. Macmillan, a cancer charity that is very worthy of support, granted her a short break. There was a lot of playing dominos and trying to convince her she wasn’t actively dying at that precise moment.

56. Pair of trainers: Converse. All the ratty old Converse low tops in the world. 

MORE GENERAL:

57. Eating: I have the house to myself right now. It’s awesome. I’m celebrating with homemade shiitake tofu stir fry, wontons, vegetable udon… and doughnuts. Not in the same bowl, though. 58. Drinking: Rum. 

59. I’m about to: Finish a short story, close out an editing project, format a print galley (again. Goddamnit, Adobe.), and try to finalise the running order of a poetry collection. Maybe send some emails, maybe eat the rest of those wontons.   61. Waiting for: The dizziness to go away, usually. 62. Want: The time, space, peace and quiet to focus on my work, and my health to cooperate long enough for that to happen. 63. Get married: As soon as possible, which basically means when we can afford it, because immigration, legal wrangling, and a ton of other bullshit. It’s a headache, but if there weren’t so many technical hurdles it would already be done.  64. Career: I write and make stuff. I’m doing it under a new name now, which is daunting, because it means starting over again, but I’ve spent the past few years doing a lot of genre fiction and being told my original work is “too original”… but I’m ready to say “fuck you” to that and see what I can carve out for myself. Come on, internet: don’t prove me wrong, ‘k? 65. Hugs or kisses: Ooh, tough. Yes? I guess hugs if I have to pick.   66. Lips or eyes: Eyes. 67. Shorter or taller: I honestly don’t care, though I do very much enjoy short subs. Pocket rockets are adorable. 68. Older or younger: It really doesn’t matter. 70. Nice arms or nice stomach: Arms, I guess? Doesn’t really matter. It’s all pretty to look at, but who really cares? Arms are best for hugs. 71. Sensitive or loud: Sensitive. I don’t like too loud. 72. Hook up or relationship: Define the terms, yo. I’d say relationship, but the definition of “relationship” can be open to numerous things. 73. Troublemaker or hesitant: Um… possibly a bit of both, but more hesitant, probably.

HAVE YOU EVER:

74. Kissed a stranger: No. 75. Drank hard liquor: Yup.

76. Lost glasses/contact lenses: I once dropped a contact lens down the back of a gas fire and spent three hours getting it out with Vaseline on a paperclip. My vision is awful and I wore very expensive gas permeable lenses at the time. 77. Turned someone down: Yup. 78. Sex on the first date: Nothing wrong with it (and nothing wrong with sex being the date), but it’s not for me. 79. Broken someone’s heart: So they said. 80. Had your heart broken: Yes, but not how you might assume. 81. Been arrested: Nope. 82. Cried when someone died: Yep. 83. Fallen for a friend: A couple of times, with varying degrees of success.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN:

84. Yourself: I try to, because few other people often do. (*the world’s tiniest violin plays*) 85. Miracles: Yes, sometimes in the form of coincidences, surprises, or the results of hard work. I believe in inverse miracles, too, when things go catastrophically wrong for no apparent reason. Or, as we call it at my house, Tuesday. 86. Love at first sight: Yes, in a way. Potential for love at first sight, I guess? I’ve usually found I know the moment I meet someone whether that’s a thing that’s going to happen or not. 87. Santa Claus: YES, DAMN IT. Okay, maybe not a literal dude in a red suit, but as a personification of the generous spirit of Non-Denominational-Winter-Solstice-and-Festival-of-Lights, he works. (I’m an eclectic neo-pagan/hedgewitch, but my most loved time of year is the whole October-February period, so I start celebrating Yule/Christmas around December 1st and don’t stop until Twelfth Night. I will take ALL of your symbolism, ALL your traditions, and – most importantly – ALL your festive foods and embrace them. In my belly. Thank you.)

88. Kiss on the first date: Probably. Unless it’s a baaaaad first date. 89. Angels: Again, not so much the literal sense, but it’d be nice to think there are positive presences looking out for us. I’d be very concerned about the serpent-like pillars of fire, though.  

OTHER:

90. Current best friends name: Aside from my dog, that’s my partner but they don’t like their details shared, so SHHHH IT’S A SECRET. 91. Eye color: grey-blue-thing 92. Favorite movie: You can’t just ask a person that at the end of the thing like it’s a simple question…! So. Many. Movies. Depends on the genre. The Blues Brothers, Priscilla: Queen of the Desert, Gattaca, Silence of the Lambs, Re-Animator, Die Hard, Stand By Me, Sleepaway Camp, Alien, Lady in a Cage, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, TRHPS, The Great Escape… those are movies I can watch a billion times (and have done). Honorable mentions, depending on my mood, go to things like Basket Case, Caramel, An American Werewolf in London, Exterminating Angel, Secretary, Gran Torino… I could have done 92 questions just on the most popularist movies I like!

tagging: I’ve been away for a few days and I don’t wanna tag people who’ve already done it, so if you’re reading this and want to do it, consider yourself tagged! <3

[thirtysixsavefiles]

1, 17, 18 for Walk Walk Fashion Baby? This is seriously one of my favorite aus ever btw.

:D I’m glad you like that pile of silliness, it was a blast to write.

Walk Walk Fashion Baby, for the Really Late Fic Meme.

1. What inspired this fic?

This was definitely inspired by @jilldrawblog‘s art - she did some model drawings of Timothy and it just sort of spiraled out of control from there.

17. Did anything surprise you during the writing?

If you can believe it, that au initially started out to be about Tim and Wilhelm - but because I am predictable trash, Jack pulled the story until it wrapped around him.

18. Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Yoooo, this part got long so it’s under a cut. Not alternate versions, but there were definitely parts I didn’t finish/never started, including:

- Tim and Wilhelm’s first date, where Wilhelm invites Tim over for dinner at his house in the suburbs. It’s a little craftsman with climbing roses up the back, and Wilhelm cooks Italian for dinner and it’s romantic and miles away from the sort of jet-setting life Tim’s been leading. Then they bang, obviously.

- Tim ends up spending the weekend and Jack’s like D:< because, while it’s okay for him to disappear for weekend getaways with his boyfriend boytoy, it is not okay for his baby brother to do the same thing.

- Jack tries to have the shovel talk with Wilhelm and Wilhelm is completely unimpressed and the tiniest bit amused.

- Jack and Tim have a huge fight when Tim announces he’s moving out. Jack is pissed but also terrified that Tim wants to leave him - they’ve been the Lawrence brothers for so long, and how does that work if there’s only one of them? Jack has defined himself as part of a unit, as Tim’s more handsome half (even though they’re pretty identical), and if Jack doesn’t have his baby brother to look out for who is he. Tim is angry at first - how dare Jack pull this huge fucking double standard on him - but he relents when he realizes that Jack is afraid of losing him. Because Jack is an emotionally stunted baby, he equates being physically apart as having a distant relationship, and he desperately, desperately does not want to give Timothy up.

“I don’t love you any less,” Tim finally says, while Jack winces and glances to the side, because why have emotional honesty when you can be an avoidant asshole about it. “You’re my brother and you’re an asshole and I love you, okay? That’s not going to change. I just -” Tim blushes here but he carries on. “I think I could love Wilhelm too, you know?”

Jack grumbles something uncomplimentary and Tim chuckles. “Besides, you’re going to ask Rhys to move in pretty soon, and while I do care for the both of you deeply, I do not want to be in the middle of that. The rug was bad enough.”

That knocks Jack back metaphorically, and he just kind of gapes at Tim because how the fuck did he know that? Jack hasn’t said anything about that to anyone. He’s barely even been allowing himself to think it.

Tim just grins because there are a lot of things Jack is, but subtle is rarely one of them.

- So anyway meanwhile Jack and Rhys are getting along famously by which I mean they are having a lot of sex. Jack can’t shut up about Rhys, though - he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it but at the end of a long flight to Paris Tim is finally tired of hearing about “Rhys this” and “Rhys that” and eventually just says “Jesus, are you in love with him, or what?”

And Jack is like hahahahahaha shut up.

Because Jack is terrified to realize suddenly that he might be - he can’t stop thinking about this kid (even though in this au he’s not that much younger than Jack), the time they spend together is infinitely better than the time they spend apart, and hadn’t Jack tried to get Rhys to blow off work the other day and stay in bed with him? When was the last time he’d done that?

Jack panics as he realizes the answer might be never.

But that’s okay, Jack thinks determinedly. He can solve this.

(Tim’s spidey-senses are tingling, and after watching a cascade of emotions fall over his brother’s face, he says warningly: “Jack, you have to talk to him. You can’t solve this with your dick.”

Jack: “WATCH ME.”)

- And from Rhys’ perspective, things are going pretty well - pretty great, actually, except that Jack has started acting weird around him. The sex is better than ever, but Rhys keeps catching Jack watching him like he’s on the verge of saying something, and Rhys thinks with a sinking feeling this is it, he’s getting tired of me. He knew it would happen eventually - he’s just not prepared for how unwilling he is to let go.

Anyway this goes on for a while until things come to the breaking point and Rhys blows up at Jack, calling him on his avoidant bullshit, and concluding with “if you’re going to break up with me just do it.”

And that just pisses Jack off, because that’s the opposite of what he’s trying to do here, and he ends up yelling back “I’m not trying to break up with you, christ, I’m trying to tell you that I love you!”

And that definitely throws Rhys for a loop, and he’s still mad, so he can’t really be held responsible when he says, “Wait, you - you only ever talk to me when we’re fucking, were you trying to get your dick to do the talking for you?”

Jack looks suddenly shamefaced, and Rhys can’t help it - he laughs, but he feels lighter than he has in weeks.

“Jesus. Fuck, you’re such an idiot - no, you are,” when it looks like Jack might argue. “What kind of idiot plan was that?”

Jack folds his arms and mumbles something about “seemed like a good idea at the time,” and Rhys crosses the distance between them and kisses him.

“It was a stupid idea,” he says fondly. “But I guess it worked out in the end.”

[empressofeverything]

across the stars

Kurosaki Ichigo’s life is boring. At least, until the Jedi Knights Kuchiki Rukia and Abarai Renji crash land into his life. The galaxy is in trouble and they need his help. With the help of his smuggler friends Uryu, Orihime, and Chad and their ship the Karakura, the group heads off into the galaxy to stop the Sith Lord Aizen and his lackeys. {IRBB, Star Wars AU}

Notes: So this story is one I've wanted to write for a while and when the IRBB (IchiRuki Big Bang) opened up, I waffled on whether or not I wanted to join. I don't do well with deadlines (at all) and school has been my main concern. But I signed up thinking, oh I'll have plenty of time to write and finish this! 

I'm a fucking liar.

Anyway. Here's my IRBB Star Wars AU. Enjoy, my lovelies.

There will be art from my amazing partner, @lico-kun coming soon!! 

Also on AO3 and FF.net! 

Screaming was generally not a good sign. In any situation. And when the screaming was being done by every single sensor, alarm, and siren on a ship, it was especially not good. Bad things usually followed.

Like crash landings.

“You fool! I thought you said you fixed this problem before we left!” Jedi Knight Kuchiki Rukia screeched at a pitch to rival the sirens. The tiny woman clung with all the force she contained to the arms of her seat. This was not part of the plan. All they were trying to do was land in Dangai, ask a few questions, find a retired Jedi, convinced him to go back to Corusant with them, and save the galaxy.

Simple.

Of course, the Force almost always threw a wrench in Rukia’s well-laid plans, something she should’ve been used to by now.

Was she? Of course not.

“I thought I did!” Her Zabrak copilot howled back. Abarai Renji, fellow Jedi Knight and copilot of the Seireitei, was half wedged into a a panel running along the side of the cockpit. Frantic long-nailed fingers worked at sparking wires with a haste that normally was abhorrent to him. Emergencies always called for exceptions. He hadn’t died yet and wasn’t planning on dying today. “Everything was working fine when we took off and during the flight, I don’t know why it’s acting up now! You must’ve done something!” Renji was a mechanical genius but even he couldn’t mend a serious problem amid a stomach-dropping fall.

Rukia took extreme offense to that statement and tried to burst Renji’s eardrums in retaliation. Her astromech droid, R4-D7, matched her pitch with little trouble.

The ship continued to spiral downward, dropping pieces and wailing like a demon from the pits of hell as it went. To those on the planet below, if anyone had happened to look up into the wide lavender sky, they would have seen a streak of red, orange, and pitch black burning up the atmosphere.

On Phyrrus, no one ever looked up.

It took an hour for the ship to succumb to gravity and finally crash into the planet’s surface and stop skidding across the desert. In the Serieitei’s burning wake, the skid marks had turned the sand to black glass. The Jedi made it out of the ship with minimal injuries, their packs, and Rukia’s droid, but that was it.

Renji and Rukia stood outside the burning wreck of their ship, surveying it with mingled concern and sinking dread. R4-D7 whistled a mournful tone, shaking its head back and forth.

The Serieitei didn’t actually belong to either of them, having been a loan from the Jedi Order for this mission specifically. Technically, they weren’t even supposed to have it. Only the pull of Rukia’s adopted older brother, Master Kuchiki Byakuya, and the seriousness of the mission had enabled the two junior Knights to use the ship. Now it was good for nothing but scrap metal and spare parts. There was no way they’d be able to return to Corusant in it.

The crash of an Order ship meant they’d be reimbursing the Order from their own pockets. That, more than anything else, led Renji to mutter, “Well, shit,” and kick the smoking wreckage. Naturally, having just been consumed in flames, it was hot and burned his foot. As he hopped about swearing and muttering, Rukia sighed and began preparing for the long trek ahead of them.

They still had a mission to complete, after all.

There was only one man who looked up into the sky to see the faintest wisps of black.

Kurosaki Ichigo tugged off his goggles, squinting up into the darkening horizon with a confused look. Had…there just been smoke crossing the sky? Or had it been an approaching sandstorm? He shrugged, curiosity piqued but decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. Nothing worth caring about ever happened on his backwater homeworld. “Besides,” he said aloud. “It’s probably just Uryu being stupid with the Karakura again.” Ichigo never got tired of mocking his cousin. He was just so easy to provoke, what with his uptight Quincy heritage and high-strung manner. Thankfully he had started to calm down a bit after his marriage.

Kon nudged him from behind, breaking his contemplation of the sky. Ichigo grinned and replaced his goggles. Patting the nexu’s head, he sent one last look toward the sky to a chorus of Kon’s purrs. “C’mon, Kon, let’s get home. Goat-face’ll be waiting for these supplies.”

Within moments, Ichigo’s footprints vanished in the blowing wind. No sign of human or nexu passage was left.

“Your sense of direction sucks.”

Renji ground his teeth together and continued to trudge onward. Ignore her…you can’t throttle your partner…murder is wrong…goes against the tenants of the Jedi Order…

“Seriously Renji, how did you pass astro-navigation during the Academy? Master Zaraki has better directional sense than you do!”

If she says anything else about my navigational skills, I’m going to run her through with no regret. Little midget needs to bite her tongue. Damn noble best friend. Why is she like this. I hate her so much sometimes. No, no, hate is wrong. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. But ugh am I suffering now. Rukia, if you value your life, SHUT UP.

“Actually, I think you’re about on Jedi Yachiru's level. That girl can get lost in an empty room and you’re not much better.”

Before Renji could spin around and strangle Rukia in aggravation, a voice broke through the blowing wind.

“Need some help, strangers? You look lost.”

Their reactions were instantaneous. R4 squealed like a stuck sandpig as Renji and Rukia dropped their packs, lightsabers igniting as they whirled to face the newcomer. He merely grinned at them, paws up to show his lack of weapon.

“Now, now, is that how you greet someone who’s simply trying to assist you?” His fanged muzzle twitched in unhidden amusement. Neither Jedi dropped their guard. He sighed dramatically, whipping out a fan to wave in front of his face. “Please, if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it already. You stand out a bit too much to be from around here.” Beady eyes peeked knowingly over the fan, shadowed by his striped hat.

Slowly, Rukia lowered her humming lightsaber but didn’t deactivate it. After a few moments and an intensely odd stare-off with the strange alien he’d identified as a Bothan, Renji followed suit. Reluctantly, but Rukia was lead on this mission. He had to obey her.

“What is it you want?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. I just thought to my self that it would be terribly tragic if you came all this way and couldn’t reach your goal because you got swallowed up by a sandstorm and couldn’t, in fact, save the galaxy.”

The two Jedi stared. The Bothan continued on blithely.

“If you follow this trail for a few miles, you’ll come across a farmer and his family who should be willing to help you. I make no guarantees, and if they aren’t going to help you, you’ll soon find out. The farmer’s eldest is a crack shot with his blaster rifle.” He winked at their nervous expressions. “Just shout ‘Hello the camp’ before you get too close to the house. Got to give something for them to shoot at, after all! Ta-ta!” With that, he vanished in a swirl of dust and sand.

Renji stared at the place he’d stood, brow horns twitching. “That…was really weird.”

[joneswilliam72]

Review: On Sulphur English extreme metal act Inter Arma deliver their most uncompromising statement yet

You know what? Inter Arma are tired of being inadequately (and reductively) pigeon-holed under the “doom” or “sludge” labels. On the other hand, they likely don’t give a shit either about the lengths you’ve gone to in coming up with a multi-hyphenated descriptor that ticks off every metal sub-genre the band cherry picks its stylistic touchstones from; blackened-and-sludgy-southern-hard-psych-stoner-death-doom-post-metal hardly rolls off the tongue anyway.

Pitched as a deliberate subversion of expectations, Sulphur English strips the band’s sound of much of the colour and light that they had increasingly let in over their past few releases, to send listeners careening, disorientated, into a dark and stormy night of the soul, with little promise of a brighter dawn. Make no mistake, frontman Mike Paparo certainly sings of his own soul across a few of these tracks, but that album title, and its none-too-subtle nod to the toxic discourse of contemporary politics, should clue you in to the fact that it’s America’s soul that’s at stake here.

In their mastery of long-form composition, their deliberate wielding of shifting dynamics, expert control of tension and release, and, yes, exuberant indulgence in genre agnosticism, Inter Arma have always been a band that merited the use of adjectives like “transportative” and “transcendent.” Sky Burial, Paradise Gallows and especially the single track epic, The Cavern (which I like to think of as the Bloodborne iteration of Inter Arma) feel like journeys, Homeric in scale, and despite the vein of misanthropy that has run through virtually all of Paparo’s lyrics, there was always a sense of escapism inherent to the experience of listening to an Inter Arma record.

Like the best post-rock, the band’s music connects emotionally by sublimating its slow builds into moments of jaw-dropping catharsis. But they’re also just a group of incredible musicians, whose self-evident glee at the sheer possibilities of unfettered creativity translates into a life-affirming, even joyful, experience for their audience. Which is why, putting on an Inter Arma album feels like an escape from realities both humdrum and painful.

All of that is to say that Sulphur English, by contrast, is not interested in providing escapism. It’s here to confront you with personal agonies and political abominations, and get you to wake the fuck up and confront our collective reality. Where Paradise Gallows opened with a prologue of pretty acoustic guitars and solo-ing worthy of David Gilmour, all in an effort to sonically conjure up the cosmic grandeur of that beautiful album art, Sulphur English opens like a goddamn horror film, all piercing whines and echoing piano. Named for erstwhile Lord Mantis and Indian drummer, Bill Bumgardner, who took his own life in 2016 (the LP is dedicated to his memory as well as to the founding member of Bell Witch, Adrian Guerra), the album opener is a howl of pain and anger, expressed in its back half via a solid minute of lurching riffage and crashing symbols, rising to a cacophony of bass drum blasts and all-consuming static. It’s a deliberately unwelcoming introduction.

The intensity doesn’t let up over the next few tracks. ‘A Waxen Sea’ and ‘Citadel’ are about as thrillingly blunt as Inter Arma get. There’s no slow build here. Just wrecking ball riffs and T.J. Childers behind the kit doing his damnedest to convince us that he is in possession of more than the standard allotment of limbs. ‘A Waxen Sea’’s appropriately sea-sick rhythm evokes being aboard a ship buffeted by tumultuous seas. As the song spirals to its conclusion, it feels like you’re circling the vortex of an unfathomably vast sinkhole. Paparo’s low death growl throughout is positively terrifying and animalistic, and yet the key lyric of a song that seems in thrall to the majesty of the oceans is about the placid tolling of iron bells. Calm and peaceful, this ain’t.

Lead single ‘Citadel’ is like a showreel for what Inter Arma are capable of. Stop-start riffing, blast beasts, vertigo-inducing, descending guitar leads, and Paparo’s vocals vacillating between the guttural bellows of death and the demonic screech of black metal, layered with effects. The lyrics posit the song as a call-to-arms, an appeal to one’s strength of will, to rise above depression and personal anguish. It’s a striking examination of mental health, wrought in Shakespearean terms: “Held captive by untold wounds of corporeal and psychic root/ Aloft in a storm of unseen anguish where joy and sorrow entwine.” The eyes-closed, horns-raised shredding of the song’s guitar solos could be interpreted as a sonic metaphor for the triumph of Paparo’s determination to overcome, but they sit so incongruously against the blunt force aesthetic of the rest of the track, that they almost seem to mock that possibility.

‘Howling Lands’, the final piece of the opening triptych, places full emphasis on Inter Arma’s rhythm section. Tribal drums dominate the mix before roiling riffs and Paparo’s blade-sharp shriek join to create an overwhelming wall of sound. If you hadn’t done so already, this is without a doubt the track where you’ll rise from your seat to applaud the job done by Mikey Allred, who engineered, mixed and mastered the record. The sheer sense of scale created here is immense, and it’s all in service to conjuring an image that matches Paparo’s words. In his most operatic baritone, he intones that the masses are digging their way to the centre of hell, as their masters (the 1%, presumably) pound their drums incessantly. And that’s exactly what ‘Howling Lands’ feels like.

When Childers finally relents, and the gently plucked acoustic guitar of ‘Stillness’ fades in, it feels like being soothed to sleep by the side of a campfire in a moonlit desert of the far-flung wild west. There’s an undeniable Swans vibe in the song’s gothic Americana, and more than a touch of Michael Gira in Paparo’s vocal delivery. If Cormac McCarthy wrote folk-inflected post-metal, this is undoubtedly what it would sound like.

Long-term Inter Arma fans will have noticed by now that they’re onto the fifth track of the album and not one song so far has come close to breaking the 10-minute barrier. The band have been holding back on the slow build approach because they’ve been too busy trying to cave in your skull; until ‘Stillness’ that is. A spiritual successor to ‘The Long Road Home’ off Sky Burial, and sounding uncannily like the beautiful folk lullaby of Paradise Gallows closer, ‘Where the Earth Meets the Sky’, ‘Stillness’ takes its time getting to its payoff. But when that monolithically sludgy riff hits, it brings with it some serious emotional heft. It’s as if the song blossoms, if something so resolutely indelicate could be said to blossom. Paparo’s voice resonates as if it’s bouncing off the towering sandstone buttes of Monument Valley.

There’s something deeply goofy about someone roaring the word “stillness” at the top of their lungs, but there is a certain sense of calm to the maelstrom that Inter Arma create. It’s brutal, unfathomably huge and loud, but somehow comforting. Released in an understated fashion as an Adult Swim Single, ‘Stillness’ is actually something of a thesis statement for Inter Arma’s raison d’être: Paparo’s lyrics, with their references to hymns and primeval songs, are suggestive of music’s power to both rouse and still the mind. This is something the guys in Inter Arma, despite their apparently irreverent approach to release strategy, take very seriously.

The band revisit the relative quiet of the album’s centerpiece on ‘Blood on the Lupines’, another gothic reverie, which passes by like a bad dream. Paparo’s droning baritone is virtually incomprehensible over an instrumental backdrop that can only be described as Lynchian jazz-doom. But pay attention to the lyric sheet, and what you have is an evocatively told narrative about an America that has lost its way. It’s deliberately obtuse, overtly symbolic and beholden only to the internal logic of dreams, but as the band gradually builds the tension, Paparo’s narrative reaches a head that is as unsettling as any of the more extreme instrumental moments on the album.

Speaking of extreme, ‘Blood on the Lupines’ is flanked on either side by two of Inter Arma’s wildest ever compositions. ‘The Atavist’s Meridian’ may not be entirely without precedent in their catalogue (‘’sblood’ and ‘Violent Constellations’ come immediately to mind), but the malevolent churn that the band whips into life during the song’s breathtaking opening minutes sets a new standard for chaotic heaviness. Childers’ performance is simply phenomenal, and Paparo is at his most deranged, whilst the contributions by Dalton, Kerkes and Russell feel less like parts written for and performed by bass and guitar, than an unholy noise summoned from the depths of the earth. There’s a period of respite during the song’s middle section but it is defined by a pervasive sense of uneasiness; the threat of being thrust back into the raging inferno of that striking album art hanging overhead. Spoiler alert: you get thrust back in. And then some.

Given its subject matter, it makes sense that the closing title track is the most aggressive song on an album that already wasn’t shy about how mad it was about a lot of things. Quite plainly an indictment of Trump and especially the GOP’s backbone-deficient willingness to follow the “charlatan [with the] forked tongue” down any outlandish, self-serving avenue he sees fit, in their quest for “power absolute,” ‘Sulphur English’ sees the band plow through passages of blistering death-metal, before slowing down to a funeral trudge to drive home the moral imperative like exasperated and weary blows to the head: “sever the corrupt tongue of the imperious fool,” Paparo growls. You can’t help but feel that anti-Trump demonstrations would be a lot more effective if protestors sounded like the Inter Arma frontman.

As the title track fades out on a cacophony of blast beats, piercing feedback and distended slabs of guitar, you realise that you now find yourself, silent and alone in the dark. Dawn has not broken. You’ve been on a journey through that black and blustery night of America’s soul, but you still have to make your own way out to the light. Inter Arma aren’t going to hold your hand and tell you that everything’s going to be ok. That’s why Sulphur English is lacking in the unguardedly beautiful moments that had graced Paradise Gallows. It’s an album that’s decidedly a product of and reaction to the times. Despite the grandeur, theatricality and sheer exuberant technicality of everything this band does in their music, the fact that they’re engaging with the uncomfortable realities of the present adds a new string to their bow and arguably makes them more vital a band than ever. Ever since Sky Burial’s release in 2013, the metal community has been hailing Inter Arma as one of the form’s leading lights. Sulphur English may not quite attain the same stratospheric heights as that record did, but, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder alongside the rest of their catalogue, it easily earns Inter Arma the right to be heralded as the metal act of the decade.

from The 405 http://bit.ly/2Zc3vqN